Little Lady

Recently, Tim and I went shooting--clays, something that we've done maybe a dozen times before. Due to his bad back and my lifelong aversion to breaking a sweat, or a nail, it's pretty much the only "sporting" activity we can both enjoy.

Although we keep threatening to find a place near home to do this, so far we've only ever done it when we are on vacation. Oh, not our beach vacations. That would interfere with the whole lie-around-like-a-beached-whale-and-have-people-bring-you-food-and-drinks theme we've so painstakingly perfected over the years. It would also probably make seagulls an endangered species. Wait a minute...hmmm...

No, no, we go shooting when we find ourselves on some weekend getaway vacation in the mountains. It's probably more fitting anyway. Shooting really is more of a mountain, or more accurately hills, sport. You know, like back in them thar hills where Jed was shootin' at some food. Where men are men, John Wayne is a god and women are, well, little ladies.

No matter how many times we go, it's pretty much the same story every time.

Tim, by virtue of being a man, is outfitted with vest, protective ear and eyewear and an impressively large weapon within seconds of setting foot inside the hallowed walls of the "shooting academy". This is usually, disgustingly accompanied by a great deal of grunting, back slapping, good ole boy, testosterone driven manly camaraderie and a serious dialogue on the merits of skeet vs. clays vs. trap (puhleeze, as if there actually is a really big difference. This is not big game hunting on the African veld compared to huntin' possum).

I, on the other hand, am subjected to their highly suspicious and skeptical regard like I somehow got lost on my way to the beauty parlor and ended up in man-land by mistake. I can almost smell the wood burning as they ponder whether I am actually going to try and shoot (try being the operative word in their minds) or more likely, run screaming for the nearest mall at the first loud bang. I am pretty sure that they are secretly taking bets on whether I will cry before or after trying unsuccessfully to load my gun with those big ole nasty bullet thingies.

I am tempted to ask them if they've ever heard of Annie Oakley, but something tells me this isn't an "Annie Get Your Gun" type of crowd and it would only irrevocably confuse them if I suddenly broke into a chorus of "Anything you Can Do, I Can Do Better".

Once it is established that I really do intend to shoot (no easy task), we head out with our "trapper", who is, pretty much without exception, an older gentleman wearing a baseball cap and chewing something that I prefer to believe for my own piece of mind is Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum...only brown.

Invariably, he will courteously offer to help me with my gun, which is probably meant to ensure I don't clobber myself with the barrel by a careless flip of my foolish, empty, little head. And if by chance we have a golf cart, I'd better beat him to the punch by securing my gun in the holder before I receive a three minute lesson on the magic of velcro. Velcro? Really? Imagine that! Show me again how it works. Go-oool-ly!

Tim, of course, just lets him keep digging his hole deeper and deeper. No way is he drawing any of the eventual fire for a perfect stranger.

And so we get to the first stand where one of two things happens. Either I am waved off to the side so my big, strong, he-man husband can shoot first and show little old me(picture much eyelash batting here) how it's done, or, and this is worse, it's "ladies first".

In dulcet tones implying patience a saint would lust after, I am guided through the basic
mechanics of loading, aiming and firing a gun. I am all but patted on the head and told not to worry if I can't hit anything; it's not like anyone is expecting me to be able to hit even the broad side of a barn. After all, I'm only a girl.

Our trapper this time even tried standing at my elbow so he could sight down the barrel with me. I believe he began to realize his error when I all but growled, "back off" and threatened his manhood with the butt of my rifle, but I was still, clearly, the "little lady".

Even after blowing the clays at the first stand clear out of the sky (they are always the easiest), I was still the recipient of a fairly patronizing amount of "help" while Tim was blithely allowed to blow clays out of the sky right and left with a gruff and cursory, "you know what to do" that was more statement than question. Yeah, cause he just looks so much like the great white hunter.

Here Tim, try to hit these next ones over your shoulder while using a mirror and riding a unicycle. Great shot! Knew you could do it!

Okay, little lady, now when you see the big orange disks flying through he sky, you just try and see if you can come close, okay? I'll even help you. Start here and end there, okay? And don't worry, I'll help you with the bullets so you don't mess up our pretty little hands with that nasty black gun powder.

I was pretty sure I could make his shooting look accidental, but Tim talked me out of it.

Despite holding my own with Tim, I don't think I made any impression on our trapper until the tenth stand. There, despite his skepticism and to his (and my) utter confoundment, I took down two clays as they crossed with a single shot.

And then I left to get my massage and a pedicure.