Learn to Point and Shoot

Other than a one-shot try at a Kiwanis turkey shoot when I was 12, I have never held a gun. They scare me. I've always felt as if the people who love guns were a little, um, half-cocked. I can't help but recall the scene from a "Simpsons" episode when Homer attempts to buy a gun, finds out there's a waiting period and complains to the salesperson, "But I'm mad now!"

So how is it I ended up in a Fairfax shooting range, blasting away at a target with a semi-automatic pistol?

This escapade began when my friend Renee and I were throwing around ideas of things to do with our women friends that went beyond book club and Bunko. For some unknown reason, I suggested that we try being gunslingers. As luck would have it, one friend's husband frequented a local shooting range, and a girls outing was quickly arranged.

When the big day arrived, my friends, my mother and I kissed our husbands, kids, and/or dogs goodbye, piled into a yuppie SUV and left our safe, manicured neighborhoods to live out our Lara Croft fantasies. No, not the Angelina Jolie fantasies of our husbands, but our own kick-butt, estrogen-fueled, shoot-'em-up fantasy. Of course, being careful and responsible women, we didn't actually shoot anything until we took basic firearms training with BBSG Academy.

The cost was $85 each for our group, which included instruction in a suite at a local hotel plus time on a shooting range. Dave Atwell, president of BBSG (Becoming Better and Safer With Guns) and the lead trainer, said that when teaching mixed-sex classes some male pupils tend to "throw around their bravado" -- which can be intimidating to some women. He pointed out that women tend to become the best marksmen (markspersons?) in his classes, because they pay close attention to instruction. Hmm, well said. We like this guy.

For eight students, there were four trainers, including Beth Hellmann, an NRA employee and a coach for Fairfax's Robinson Secondary School shooting teams. After four hours of discussing topics such as handgun types, gun safety, etiquette, storage and cleaning, we headed to the shooting range at Blue Ridge Arsenal.

The moment of truth: I started with a .22 caliber revolver, which is heavy and takes quite a squeeze to fire. I expected my arm to ache a little from the recoil; but, surprisingly, after a few shots, my arm hurt from simply holding up the weight of the gun. A semi-automatic pistol with a more sensitive trigger was a little less Annie Oakley than the revolver. It would be my gun of choice -- if, er, I were into such things.

Having an instructor right next to me was comforting. I was nervous, but one instructor asked if I had shot before, because my form and aim were so good. (I attribute it to watching hours of "Charlie's Angels" during my youth.)

As I shot, other than concentrating on my form, I couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling that I had the power to kill in my hands. My mind wandered to the Osama bin Laden paper targets for sale in the lobby. If given the chance, I know I would hit his likeness exactly between the eyes. But alas, in this class we were expected to use the somewhat boring BBSG-regulation tombstone target.

There's no question about it. Shooting a pistol was empowering. I left feeling confident and not as afraid of firearms as I was earlier in the day. The other women felt the same; my 62-year-old mother (law enforcer should-have-been) acted as giddy as us thirty-somethings. I even snapped some pics of Mom in the lobby Patty Hearst-style holding a huge AK-something-or-other. Later she e-mailed the picture and a copy of her NRA-trained certificate to her NRA-lifetime-member brother-in-law. I hear he is impressed.

People now ask me if I'm going to "pack heat." I could if I wanted to, I tell them with bravado. But I will not buy a gun, and I tell my friends the following anecdote: Once I asked a loving, elderly couple what the secret was to their long marriage. The wife replied, "We don't own a gun."

I'm not sure if this story relieves my husband -- or scares the heck out of him. Erica Garman