I ran into an acquaintance recently in Austin who confessed to me in a drunken stupor that while engaged in a conversation with his buddies about "The One Who Got Away" he had nominated me for that position in his heart. This, of course, led to speculation on what entitles someone to that elevated level which is pedestal, and, how it came to be they "Got Away" in the first place.
"The One Who Got Away" The name implies that this person left on their own accord. Perhaps you never realized they were amazing until someone else snatched them up.
Yet, as it is usually rued in (drunken) conversations, I would like to propose changing the name to "The One You Threw Away and Have Regretted Ever Since." I have noticed that this is often times a more suitable name for those (mis)labeled ""The One Who Got Away". "Threw Away" has a negative connotation but is more brief than "The One You Broke Things Off With For Whatever Reason And Have Regretted Ever Since." If anyone has a concise, catchy phrase in the "Threw Away" stead I am all ears but I digress. Back to the point.
"The One You Threw Away/The One Who Got Away" Both names imply regret and to regret a mistake you made years ago is a waste of time and robs you of finding the one you might truly be happy with. And, if you believe in fate and the "One For You" then can a "One Who Got Away" exist?
So, if you do indeed exist, to my "The One Who Got Away", I apologize for being a silly naive little girl and you can take comfort in knowing that I will die an old spinster.
Afterward: as for my acquaintence at the bar, I don't think I constitute as any of the above definitions. It wasn't for his lack of trying, I just wasn't interested. That's just called bad timing.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
My love affair with a .357
I suppose the first time I shot a gun was with my daddy on a hunting trip. I have to suppose because the first time I remember shooting a gun was with my dad on a hunting trip and I'd already shot one before. He'd stand behind me with his finger on the trigger. Sort of like how some dads probably teach their daughters how to bowl. I remember the first time I felt the gun kick against my shoulder. It hurt a little but the adrenaline rush was well worth it.
We start them young in my family. I was probably five when I remember this first shot off a .20 gauge. Being the only girl out of five brothers, I was the only child who wasn't given a bb gun at a tender age. Or any gun for that matter. It wasn't until I was 25 that my dad bestowed upon me his cherished .357 magnum revolver.
I've always loved shooting. If you're not a gun person please stop reading here. I don't want to hear preaching about gun safety or how guns kill people and I'm not here to advocate the right for American citizens to arm themselves. I only wish to regale you with tales of one of my own favorite hobbies.
Obviously I've grown up around guns. Shooting is no different to me than how some people play golf or swim. In college my girlfriends and I would drive out with our friends and boyfriends to their ranches and spend the weekend tooling around in golf carts drinking sangria wine and shooting skeet. This is when we got tired of bars and 6th street. Faye loves me to tell the story of how, one night when we got bored of the scene we took off straight from 6th street to a buddy's ranch. We briefly stopped by my house to grab Paco and that was it. The girls spend the weekend fishing and shooting in high heels and the men in nice jeans and good shoes.
One of our favorite (and granted not the most intelligent) games was playing a drinking game of skeet. When you missed you chugged a beer. Obviously the more we drank the more we missed and ended up wasted. But, a big but, is when you grow up around guns you know gun safety and when to put them down. We never got wasted while shooting and accidents were highly unlikely. Just like you wouldn't chop something up really quickly with a sharp knife while drunk. Or drive a car. I remember Arien and I playing one bout and our friend Charlie was talking to us with a beer in one hand and his .12 gauge in the crook of his elbow. Shmitty called "pull" and Charlie turned around and boom boom shot both skeet (double pul) without lifting his gun to his shoulder. Arien and I both had our socks knocked off. My Texas nature comes out here: gun + good aim + beer + hairy chest = hot.
Growing up with five brothers is tough to put it mildly. Especially in a family that is still mostly a machismo family. It probably explains my fascination with Hemingway. Anyway the way my dad and I bond now is at the gun range. We went shooting together for the first time in probably 10 years when I was 25. It's now a regular occurrence every time I go back home to visit. You see, in my family, guns bring people closer together.
We start them young in my family. I was probably five when I remember this first shot off a .20 gauge. Being the only girl out of five brothers, I was the only child who wasn't given a bb gun at a tender age. Or any gun for that matter. It wasn't until I was 25 that my dad bestowed upon me his cherished .357 magnum revolver.
I've always loved shooting. If you're not a gun person please stop reading here. I don't want to hear preaching about gun safety or how guns kill people and I'm not here to advocate the right for American citizens to arm themselves. I only wish to regale you with tales of one of my own favorite hobbies.
Obviously I've grown up around guns. Shooting is no different to me than how some people play golf or swim. In college my girlfriends and I would drive out with our friends and boyfriends to their ranches and spend the weekend tooling around in golf carts drinking sangria wine and shooting skeet. This is when we got tired of bars and 6th street. Faye loves me to tell the story of how, one night when we got bored of the scene we took off straight from 6th street to a buddy's ranch. We briefly stopped by my house to grab Paco and that was it. The girls spend the weekend fishing and shooting in high heels and the men in nice jeans and good shoes.
One of our favorite (and granted not the most intelligent) games was playing a drinking game of skeet. When you missed you chugged a beer. Obviously the more we drank the more we missed and ended up wasted. But, a big but, is when you grow up around guns you know gun safety and when to put them down. We never got wasted while shooting and accidents were highly unlikely. Just like you wouldn't chop something up really quickly with a sharp knife while drunk. Or drive a car. I remember Arien and I playing one bout and our friend Charlie was talking to us with a beer in one hand and his .12 gauge in the crook of his elbow. Shmitty called "pull" and Charlie turned around and boom boom shot both skeet (double pul) without lifting his gun to his shoulder. Arien and I both had our socks knocked off. My Texas nature comes out here: gun + good aim + beer + hairy chest = hot.
Growing up with five brothers is tough to put it mildly. Especially in a family that is still mostly a machismo family. It probably explains my fascination with Hemingway. Anyway the way my dad and I bond now is at the gun range. We went shooting together for the first time in probably 10 years when I was 25. It's now a regular occurrence every time I go back home to visit. You see, in my family, guns bring people closer together.
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