My husband and I recently got the brilliant idea to take the concealed carry class. It’s something we’ve been planning on for awhile, but the plan finally came to fruition a couple of weeks ago. The process began with information in the mail that listed a zillion rules for the class and a list of supplies to bring. Being that I don’t own a gun, we decided to make life a little easier and borrow a gun from the instructor for the class. But we had to bring ammo, a baseball cap, paper, pen, $50 cash, a driver’s license and lunch. And tardiness is PROHIBITED. They were very adamant about that.
So Justin and I headed out bright and early to the John Zink Ranch. We had to stop and pull cash out at the bank, and then we discovered a detour on the way. Don’t know why I was surprised; the entire city is under construction. We were panicked about making it in time, and this place was way out in the boonies. But we got there, and were greeted at the gate by a hillbilly that turned out to be our instructor, who was waiting for a replacement to play gatekeeper. Apparently the relief partied a bit too hard the night before, because he was at least half an hour late.
I was pleasantly surprised at the class; I expected a group of toothless men in NASCAR hats spitting on the floor. It was actually a nice mixture of normal people, including a few women, so I wasn’t the lone female. The class began an hour late, which was okay, since I wasn’t fully awake anyway, and I assumed the instructor (who remained nameless until the last hour of the class) would speed up to make up for lost time. Boy, was I ever wrong.
The class officially began when he said, “Basically I’m going to read to you for the next eight hours.” Now if there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s being read to. I’m a visual person, and it just grates to have other people read. But I had paid my fifty bucks CASH, and I was in it to win it.
Mr. Nameless Trucker Hat Hillbilly wasn’t joking. And he didn’t have a pleasant reading voice, if you can imagine that. He mumbled, he read like the MicroMachine man, and he mispronounced every other word. Heaven forbid someone asked a question, because that would lead to him treating us to a 20-minute story from his personal life. He had a story for every situation, and he demonstrated a different gun from his collection for each example. Honestly, I think he teaches the class just so he can show off his arsenal.
But we made it through a very long morning, followed by the test (which I was completely in a panic about) which turned out to be a joke. Justin and I both made a perfect score, which is fabulous, because I never would have lived that down. After our sack lunch (Mr. Nameless Trucker Hat Hillbilly noshed on Cheetos and Pepsi), we were finally going to shoot. Or so I thought. First we had to listen to him READ about different stances. (Uh, a demo, please?) Then he READ about how to load a gun. On, and on. And on.
We finally headed to the range, which was pretty uneventful. Except for the fact that I was completely clueless as to how to do anything, since I needed a demo, and not a lecture. After raising my hand three different times before I ever fired a shot, I figured out what I was doing. I also learned that I have really wussy fingers. I sported callouses for a week afterward from loading my magazine. But hey, I did it! It took nine and a half hours, but I DID IT!