The kids in our neighborhood are getting restless. There has been a rash of car break-ins recently and an attempted home invasion. One night not long ago a young man knocked on a front door at 10 o’clock at night. The owners didn’t answer [because in the South, no one visits or calls after dark]. The boy went around to the back of the house, unscrewed the light bulb in the porch light and tried to kick in the back door. The owners scared him off and called the police. Reportedly, the police arrived 20 minutes later and didn’t take a report. Our rabid neighborhood watch is going nuts. Don’t try to outsmart a bunch of old Special Forces guys. Things will get real in a hurry.
Z and I were talking about the attempted break-in over breakfast. Z said he would get anyone that broke in our house. That’s dumb, I said. He looked up from his bowl of Fiber One and went on a rant. I’ve heard it all before. When I asked him if he wouldn’t feel bad for hurting a kid, he said let that be a lesson to his friends. It gave me a headache trying to reconcile what I was hearing.
Z and I have opposing views on gun control. We basically vote down party lines. My opinions about automatic weapons make him groan in disgust. His opinions on concealed carry make me think I’ve married a nut. I can tolerate it because Z is a fanatic about gun safety and the weapons stay out of sight. It lets me live in my Happy Place where guns don’t exist.
Z insisted that we go to the gun range today so I could practice. No, I’m not going, I said. He persisted. Z doesn’t get adamant about much, but he was adamant that I practice with a pistol. I fumed the entire way to the range. In one respect, I get that, if there are guns in the house, you should know how to properly handle them. It would be ironic if someone did break into our house and harmed me when I had a means to protect myself within reach. On the other hand, I honestly can’t see myself doing it. When I lived alone, and in highly suspect areas, I kept my old aluminum softball bat under my bed. I know, rock-paper-scissors, a bat is no competition for a gun. Then again, if you get close enough, I could smack your eardrum into the next county. I mean, I didn’t get married until I was 37 years old. That means I dated for 20 long, hard years. I have enough repressed rage in me that I’m pretty sure I can unleash a wild fury on any man trying to hurt me. He’d cry then he’d call his momma to apologize for being a problem child. Who needs a gun with those skills?
Z went easy on me and only had me shoot one magazine from each pistol. Z refreshed my memory on how to load the magazine, turn on — and off! — the safety, and line up the sites. The 1911 was the heaviest and easiest to shoot. I actually hit the bull’s eye with that one. The Glock 34 was lighter, but I wasn’t as accurate. I still hit the target though. The Glock 19 was a beast to shoot. It was the smallest and lightest and I couldn’t hit a barn with it. Well, I hit six shots in the target [barely] and six outside of the target. If I try to shoot someone in the foot, he’s definitely going to get it in the liver. Sorry, Mr. Intruder.
Really Liking: The Help by Kathryn Stockett
Training Log: Yesterday I cycled and ran. The hip/foot affliction seems to be gone. Had my first migraine in three months today, so slept about six hours this afternoon. Back to cycling and running tomorrow.