Reverie

I've recently decided to learn how to use a gun. I've never been a gun nut, in fact have always found them vaguely off-putting. But my son has managed to convince me that my masculinity is lacking if I don't get one.

Johnny recommended a semi-automatic called the FN Five-seven (pictured above). He says it's powerful, accurate, and appropriate for me because it has less recoil.

So I signed up to take a gun course in early September. As a prerequisite I have to read a short primer on guns and complete a brief quiz.

While reading this booklet, it occurred to me what a wonderful prop a gun could be if you were single. Just leave it where your date would see it, perhaps in an open drawer. (The booklet emphasizes that you should store your gun in a safe place accessible only to you.)

She would of course ask why you have a gun. You could answer in several ways, each designed to not be credible:

"I don't have a gun.....Hey, you're not supposed to be looking in there."

"Oh that? Uh, a friend just asked me to keep it for him for a while."

[If you have a serious-looking semi-automatic, like the one pictured above]: "That's not a real gun, it's just a starter's pistol. I, uh, help out at the local track meets from time to time."

Or, as if this renders its very existence meaningless, "Oh....well, it's not loaded right now."

All of these answers would make you appear more of a badass than you actually are.

So....while my 19-year-old son puts his life on the line on a daily basis in Afghanistan, I, at age 57, am indulging in fantasies more befitting a 14-year-old.

There's something very, very wrong here.

And not with my son.