Ian got invited to this birthday party yesterday; kids his age usually have their parties at like bowling alleys (which is where Ian's has been for the past 3-4 years) or skate parks or the like. But the kid yesterday had his party at this place called "Airsoft" which is where kids — and, we learned, adults; lots & lots of adults in every conceivable variety of cammo1 — go to pay money to stalk each other with guns that shoot little white pellets in this room filled with particle board structures. The idea for kids is to have fun playing soldier or hunter or wild west lawman or whatever whereas the idea for adults is to broadcast to anyone who sees you in your ridiculous get-ups that you a member of an elite group of fighting men known collectively as Teh Lame-oid Fucking Luuuuzers.
I was certain that Ian would love this experience because, for reasons neither Teh 'B. nor I can fathom, he's really interested in fishing (which we allow him to do) and hunting (which, needless to say, we do not). Fishing and hunting are pretty big in these parts, though, and as soon as Ralph, the hunter/fisherman down the street whom Ian wishes were his REAL dad, comes home with a buck tied to the hood of his truck, Ian is OUT THE DOOR to go down there and experience the gore firsthand; and he comes home and regales us with Ralph's stories of tracking and killing the deer, and how long he'll be having venison for dinner, and here, Ian, have some fresh-made deer-jerky, and here's some more to take home for the family, etc.
Teh 'Bride and I resisted, for the longest time, even letting Ian have toy guns to play with. Inevitably, they made their way into his life, because people give these things as birthday gifts to boys with the same predictable inevitability that they give Barbies to girls, because otherwise how would the former ever learn that killing is fun? And how would the latter ever learn that their bodies are deformed and worthless and, when they grow up, no man will ever love them because their tits aren't big enough and their waists aren't half the size of their 36 inch hips and, hey, here's an idea — put down the pulled pork every once in a while, heifer-girl, and they TOTALLY could be, but why bother because it doesn't matter because you'll never be a natural blonde anyway, so study hard, chickie, because all YOU have to look forward to is a "rewarding" career, in which you'll make 70 cents on the dollar compared to the man at your company who's doing the exact same job as you. Pfffttt! That'll keep you warm at night and leave you a couple million dollars when it dies in its sleep before you!1!
I am not too upset over the fact that Ian plays with toy guns, though. Because back when I was a kid, and the flintlock had just been invented, I and all the other kids in Colonial America played with guns all the time. And yet despite that, I still grew up to be this Total Pacifist Pussy that you all know and pretend to tolerate. I'm confident Ian will ultimately follow in my pussy footsteps and grow up having these same fights with his son (my hypothetical grandson) who will be certain he has Teh Lamest Dad in Teh Universe.
And I thought Ian would definitely lurve this Airsoft place because he'd actually get to hunt the KKK: Kammo-Klad-Kids. But here's the thing: Ian didn't like it so much because the "soft" in "Airsoft" is a total lie. The little white pea-sized pellets are hard plastic, and even though the place supplies goggles and chest protectors and Ian wore 4 shirts, three sets of pants, his shin guards from back in the day when he never played soccer, etc., he still managed to get hit in relatively unprotected areas, like his @$$-cheek, which had a nice little (and still-expanding, as of this morning) bruise on it; and his forearm, which had a quarter-inch raised contusion on it. And like most people who are into hunting, Ian's more into inflicting pain and death than being on the receiving end of it.
I don't think he wants to go back to Airsoft. But that could change. At the bus stop this morning, he did allow that it was, in fact, fun when it was his turn to shoot the other kids, especially when he got to use the automatic pellet gun. So it could go either way.
Today, I did next to nothing, exercise-wise. Now I know how those adult Luuuuzers in Cammo feel.
1 I'm aware that the preferred American spelling is "camo". But I prefer teh Kanadian spelling because two m's just makes more sense to me, you hosers.