Die, Zombie Becky!

As a kid, I was steeped in a broth of James Bond, with a heavy dose of Dirty Harry mixed in. I also have a weirdly defective startle impulse and routinely scream during benign situations if I am surprised. People think I’m kidding, but I really can’t control it.

So it was with a mix of excitement and dread that I headed to the shooting range to fire a handgun for the first time. I got a safety lesson first from Jordan, a friend of my husband’s whose Baer 1911 .45 I would be firing.

The .45 is a big gun. I was scared and let out a yelp from the big kick during my first few shots. I was surprised how quickly I got used to it, though. I started by loading just one round at a time so that I wouldn’t have live ammunition in the gun during the kick.

Once I settled in, I fired three rounds in succession, since that is a better method for shooting at zombies.

I stayed alert and cautious throughout our session. A man a few lanes away was firing a cannon that I felt through my feet every time he shot. It’s hard to relax around that, but I did get more comfortable.

The three of us only fired about 50 rounds, to the surprise of the man at the desk. Once I finished, I was itching to get out of there quickly, feeling like I didn’t want to press my luck.

I took care of Zombie Becky, but Zombie Roxie may be coming for me in my nightmares tonight.

#4. 101 things in 1001 days. Shoot a gun.