DensieW's Open Salon Blog

Me and My Kimber 45 or Ladies' Day at Red's

Tue, 21 Dec 2010 16:12:36 -0500

Sometimes you just gotta say, "what the fuck?" and do it. That was my rationalization anyway when I found myself at Red's Firing Range yesterday in Pflugerville, Texas, a suburb of Austin. Complete with a big 'ole American flag painted on the front wall that faces the highway and lots of trucks in the parking lot. All that was missing was a bumper sticker that said "I'll give you my gun when you pry it out of my cold dead hands."

As I get older, I find myself increasingly willing to step outside my comfort zone and try new things. The opportunities seldom present themselves; I typically have to search them out. Like trying karoke for the first time, or going to a BlackEyed Peas concert in Newark, New Jersey or line dancing with a bunch of women, most of whom were at least 20 years my junior, and my recent joining of a writers' group and putting myself out there for criticism. Voluntarily!

This latest forey into the great unknown was prompted, ironically, by my attempt to write fiction. I've been working on a story, a novel, actually, in which the young protagonist reluctantly agrees, upon the insistance of her father and her boyfriend, to learn how to shoot a gun and keep one at the ready.

The last time I held a gun, if you can call it that, I was 9 or 10. It was a BB gun. I didn't like it. Never had any desire to hold one again, much less to shoot one or even think about using one against another human being.

My husband was in the Israeli army for four years and I've heard him, many times, talk about his rifle and how soldiers were expected to treat it as if it were an extra appendage. Set your gun down unattended and you're headed for a stint in the Israeli military prison.

But he's never held a handgun. So, he was no help.

I had tried to make the experience of my character feel real. But after several false starts, I finally said, "I got nothin" and gave up. That's when I began to consider giving it a shot (so to speak) myself. My hair stylist's husband is a policeman and I figured he might have a suggestion of where to go. She didn't even have to pass the inquiry along. "Go to Red's," she said.

So I did. It was Ladies' Day. Yep, on Ladies' Day at Red's you get half off. I brought my psychologist friend with me for moral support. I can't tell a 22 from a 45 from an AK47. Turns out she knew more than me. And she kept urging me to try the 45. "If you're going to do it, you might as well do it right."

And the guy behind the counter, who was incredibly patient with this middle-aged, female, firearm neophyte, said, " Well, if this is for home use and someone breaks in, you might have to shoot them 3 or 4 times with the 22; with a 45, all it takes is one shot." I'd be lucky to hit my target once. Better to go with winner takes all. So, I opted for a Kimber 45. "The cadillac of 45s" or so I was told.

I was shown the proper stance (sort of like downhill skiing, only your legs are further apart), how to load the bullets, insert the magazine and lock it into place, release the safety, how to hold the gun in both hands, so it doesn't get away from you on the recoil and how to line up the site on the target. It was a lot to remember. My nerves got the better of me and my palms were sweating, making it even more difficult to hold the gun in place.

But when everything finally came together, I took a breath and pulled the trigger.

All I can say is...I'm not exactly sure what to say. It was nothing like I expected. The incredible force unleashed is shocking, frightening, awe-inspiring, and difficult to fully comprehend.

I think we get so desensitized to guns being shot at the drop of a hat on television and in movies and seeing the unrealistic reaction of the gunshot victims, "Oh, dear, I've been shot," after which the victim (usually a man) turns to his beloved and shoves his tongue down her throat.

But then again, It's been said that most men could be on their death beds and still want it. So maybe the depiction is not so far off base.

My advice, based on my very brief experience? No matter where you stand on gun control, I think everyone should try it to have a full understanding of what it is we're really talking about. I hadn't a clue. Now all I can think about is what it must feel like to be on the receiving end.

Clint Eastwood came to mind in the midst of my repeatedly pulling the trigger.

"But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?"

I saw that movie decades ago. It was cool. Clint was cool. It taken me until this week at Red's in Pflugerville, Texas, to truly appreciate the power he warned of. And now, I can feel the power too. But I think I'll stick to the power of the written word from here on out.

Yoga Vegan Baby

Fri, 10 Dec 2010 09:12:28 -0500

Haven't been around in quite a while. For a number of reasons. Not the least of which is my stubborn underemployment. But I'm finding things to occupy my time and my mind. Joined a local writers' group. Went to my first meeting last week. It was a shot in the arm. Can't wait to return.

Have gotten positively obsessive about exercise, walking 5 miles as often as 6 times a week.

My latest attempt to escape the doldrums of my life? Yoga. Can't really afford to pay for classes, but a friend who can, invited me for the month of December. "Bring a friend all month!" A promotional gig. The hope, of course, is that you'll fall in love with it and won't be able to resist opting for a paying membership. You can't draw blood from a stone, as they say, so free December is it for me.

Three times a week for an hour and 15 minutes I enter an alternative universe at a place unimaginatively called "Yoga Yoga," full of yoga vegan babies, middle-aged women trying to cope with that fact, a spattering of men, which I haven't quite been able to peg, stressed out young mothers, and young nubile girls with no hips. My friend and I fall into the middle-aged category.

She'd been raving about the effect yoga was having on her and nudged me repeatedly to come. I've never attempted it before and my schedule is pretty much open these days, so I accepted her invitation.

I've been about 6 times so far and here are my random observations/thoughts.

I need to get over my all-consuming paranoia about what I might look like from behind in tight knit yoga pants as I bend over into the downward dog position. Women who I'm sure must be forced to pay for two airline seats when they fly, apparently have no qualms about their appearance in said pants. I need to get over myself.
On my own, I never really relax. Not really. Not in the way you're forced to in yoga. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but twice now, I've fallen asleep during "shavasna." Also creepily referred to as the "corpse pose." Fifteen minutes of forced relaxation as you lay prone on the floor. The teacher's voice tricks me into relaxing. I'm beginning to wonder if it's group hypnosis.
Before each class, the teacher goes around the room and asks individually how we're doing, what our energy level is and if we have any physical complaints. I don't even like discussing such things with my doctor. And I abhor being the center of attention. Even if I had sailor's knots running up and down my spine, I wouldn't open up about it to a class of strangers. I always say, "I'm fine."
It's a bit like Simon Says, only the instructions can be mystifying. Some teachers are better at it than others, but you can find yourself twisted in a pretzel, about to snap, when you look around and realize you went left when you were supposed to go right. I was pretty sure I had figured out my left from my right in Kindergarten. Maybe it's been so long, I've just forgotten.
I haven't even told my friend yet, but I occasionally get the feeling that the joke is on us. That the instructor is giving body-bending directions, just for the perverse pleasure of seeing if we'll comply. No matter how ridiculous they seem. The most recent oddball request was an exercise of closing one nostril with your thumb, release and then close the other with your ring finger, to see which side was more open. Supposed to be an indication of whether you're thinking with your right brain or left that day. Okay. And because these are yoga babies, they almost all have this smile of inner peace plastered on their faces while dispensing such nonsensical instructions. I have an innate distrust of people who smile all the time.

Having said all of that, I wish I could afford to continue the classes into 2011. Each time, I walk away feeling like I've had a deep oil massage. And, I'm almost afraid to say it, but I haven't had a migraine in 12 days. A personal record. Perhaps there's a connection?

I'll never morph into a true, yoga, vegan baby. My cynicism and distrust run far too deep. But at least I can cross yoga off my bucket list.

Namaste

Thought for the Day

Wed, 3 Nov 2010 15:11:24 -0400

And that's all I have to say on the matter.

Free Floating

Thu, 28 Oct 2010 14:10:29 -0400

I've been pondering this for a while now. Is it possible to experience free-floating anxiety so intense that when the alarm goes off each morning, the first thing you do is a quick check to see if it's still there? Yep. Didn't take the redeye while you were sleeping. Yet, you find yourself at the same time, so incredibly bored with the day-to-day of what is your life that you can hear the siren call of the sofa and HBO in the middle of the afternoon?

These are rhetorical questions.

My emotional stew wouldn't be complete with a healthy serving of guilt. Guilt because I can't seem to wrangle a sense of complete contentment, when I have every reason to feel content.

I'm going to a convention in a couple of weeks. A long-time acquaintence will be there. I see her once a year. Over the years I've learned of her struggle to deal with her husband's rare degenerative disease, of which he eventually died from and left her with 3 school-age children. There was the time her house came this close to burning down in one of the many California fires. And, most recently, she has managed to come out of the other side of treatment for a rare cancer that riddled her body with tumors and required surgery and chemo.

She has something to be anxious about.

To the best of my knowledge, I, my husband and my two kids are healthy. Work has been really slow, but it's picked up a little lately and I'm hoping 2011 will be a better year financially. I exercise regularly. I read a lot, having recently rediscovered the library. And I write whenever I can.

Then why am I floating in a sea of anxiety, waiting for the next wave to overtake me? And why am I simultaneously bemoaning the fact that my life is a bore? What is it exactly I expect to happen?

I wish I had answers to my own questions. Right now, books, movies and writing are my coping mechanisms.

Eventually, I'll find my way to shore and I won't even remember exactly what this felt like. But, in the meantime, I think I'm going to resort to the backstroke and try to enjoy the clear blue sky. I have to remind myself that it's a blank canvas. Full of possibilities.

My 12 Thingies

Wed, 22 Sep 2010 09:09:42 -0400

Like everyone else here on OS, I've probably revealed more than I should about myself in my posts. But, I guess there are a few things still under the rug left to be revealed. Here's a real hodge-podge of facts and figures.

1. I'm a registered dietitan. I always liked nutrition, but discovered I hated listening to people whine about their diets. Didn't last long as a hospital dietitian. Ended up writing about nutrition from a more comfortable distance.

2. When I was in my twenties, I owned a motorcycle. A fact that confounds my kids and has me sometimes questioning the accuracy of my own memories.

3. I have a Ph.D. in nutrition with a minor in biochemistry. Always feels like I'm talking about someone else when I say that. It was a long time ago. I went straight through undergraduate and graduate school, pausing only for a year of said hospital work, which was doomed from the start.

4. I have a secret obsession with the movie Jumper, about a guy who possesses the power to transport himself anywhere in the world, anytime, in the blink of an eye. I find the possibilities deliciously intriguing. I've watched it more times than I can count on HBO on Demand. My kids walk in and roll their eyes, "Mom, are you watching THAT again?"

5. I used to smoke. A lot. Marlboro Lites. A pack or so a day. Quit over 20 years ago, but I still love the smell of someone lighting up.

6. Some of my favorites on my iPod right now: White Fences by Alpha Rev; Dear Agony by Breaking Benjamin; West Coast by Coconut Records; Swim Until You Can't See Land by Frightened Rabbit; Better Together by Jack Johnson; Wide Eyes by Local Natives; Speck by Matt Pond PA; In the Next Room by Neon Trees; The Man Who Can't Be Moved by The Script; Sweet Disposition by Temper Trap. Most embarrassing song on my iPod? It's Raining Men by the Weather Girls.

7. Chandler Bing (Matthew Perry) on Friends is my favorite television character of all time. I watch reruns in syndication and know most of the characters' lines by heart, but I have a real soft spot in my heart for Chandler. If Monica hadn't married him, I would have.

8. I love my husband. I kvetch about him. A lot. But even after 25 years I still sometimes look at him and wonder why he chose me.

9. I broke my wrist once walking to the subway from work in NYC. It had been raining, I was wearing heels and I slipped and fell on the handicap ramp at the street crossing. My skirt hiked up, my briefcase went flying and I was paralyzed in pain. Don't ever let people convince you that New Yorkers are heartless. People came to my rescue. One man helped me and my briefcase into a cab so I could get to Brooklyn, where I lived. At the ER, the nurse was concerned it might be a case of domestic abuse and was peppering me with questions for a while, before I realized the point of the interrogation. All in all, I was well cared for by New Yorkers.

10. My family and I were caught in the aftermath of a terrorist attack in Israel a few years ago, while leaving my sister-in-law's, who lives in a suburb of Jerusalem. We were headed back into the city at night. A teenage friend of my niece's had been shot and killed just a short distance from their home. Barracades were quickly erected. Traffic was stopped. Soldiers and guns were everywhere. And we were stuck. I've never felt so exposed or been so frightened in my life. It was just a taste of what it's like living under the constant threat.

11. I can't swim. I took lots of lessons as a kid--at the city pool, at the high school, even private. They just never took me.

12. I went to Catholic school from kindergarten to the middle of 6th grade. The nuns wore flowing black robes, black orthopedic shoes and had rosaries that hung from their waistbands. To my child's eye, they seemed to have magical powers. They whacked us with rulers when we misbehaved. My father, who was Baptist, hated them. Just to aggravate my mother, he used to say, "Any friend of Zoro's is a friend of mine." (You know....the black robes.) I converted to Judaism when I met my husband. I've got the guilt thing down pat.

P.S. About the song: If you watch Hung on HBO, you'll recognize the theme song. But it's a great song by a great group.