I stood, poised in the back of the room, ready to snap some photos of our 2008 Becoming an Outdoors-Woman workshop. I was sitting in the Introductions to Firearms course, listening to the instructor explain the purpose of a choke in a shotgun.
"So in reality, you could buy a gun with the interchangeable choke, and that gun could handle most any hunting situation you might need it for," asked one woman.
"Sure," replied Ken, the instructor.
"So instead of a gun safe full of guns, my husband could have a single gun and still be a successful hunter. One gun should really be all he needs," the woman continued.
"Uh, well now, I didn't say that..." stammered Ken.
"Oh I know," echoed a different classmate. "My husband must have a dozen different guns and that doesn't include the pistols, and he's always looking for another one. What's with that? Why do they think they need so many guns?"
A chorus of yeahs, I knows and me toos made their way around the group. At the front of the room, Ken was laughing, realizing he had just opened Pandora's box and perhaps set in motion a few divorces.
I used to feel the exact same way. I'd roll my eyes when the boy-du jour in my life would start salivating over the Cabela's catalog or insist on stopping at a pawn shop because "you just never know what you'll find!" Then I started shooting and hunting and I soon discovered a universal truth in my quest to find my inner-outdoor woman...
You can never be too rich, too thin or have too many guns.
My modest collection includes a Remington 7mm.08, a Winchester .22 and a massive 12 gauge side-by-side shotgun my father donated to the cause. My wish list includes a .22 handgun and a 20-gauge shotgun and maybe a .270 in case I decide to try hunting elk.
I got my first inkling that maybe I had a problem was when I was looking at shotguns with Outdoor Guy this summer. I'd narrowed down my selection and was explaining to him that the gun was on sale and the manufacturer was offering a $30 rebate as well.
"That's the same gun I own, just go ahead use mine for a while," he offered.
That would be a practical and cheaper solution. But for some reason I felt like stamping my foot like a petulant child.
"But you don't understand. I want my own shotgun," I wanted to whine. Luckily, I got distracted by all the other cool stuff in the store before I could work up a good pout. I'm sort of like a crow - I'm easily distracted by shiny objects.
The next of my symptoms surfaced a few weeks ago. I met a few coworkers for dinner after they had spent the day hunting antelope northwest of town. They hadn't had much success, but I received high praise for my rifle, which I had lent to Rebecca for the short season.
"That is one sweet gun," Dave told me. That just made my night. My gun was considered cool! You would have though he had just praised one of my children, or told me I was prettier than Jennifer Aniston the way I grinned.
It was a non-hunting friend who finally helped me accept my condition . She and I were discussing my pending nuptials and the merger of stuff between me and Outdoor Guy. I told her I was excited because I would inherit all of his guns, at least quadrupling my current selection.
"I don't get it. How many guns does a normal person really need?" she asked.
Sure, if you want to be practical, my friend and the women at BOW had a valid point. There are versatile guns out there that can handle lots of different types of hunting. A person could get by with just a rifle or two and a versatile shotgun. But where's the fun in that? Every gun is unique. Each feels and handles just a little differently, and is designed for specific conditions. And even just after a few uses, I have great memories tied up in my guns - reminders of special people, special times and beautiful places. But how do you explain that to someone who doesn't hunt or shoot without sounding like a pistol-packing right-wing nutcase?
"You could play a pretty decent round of golf with just one driver, one iron and a putter, but I'm guessing you carry more than three clubs in your golf bag," I replied.
I saw her start ticking off her clubs on her fingers. When she got to twelve, she abruptly stopped.
"So where are you going on your honeymoon again?"
Hello, I'm Teresa and I'm a gunaholic. Could you please point me to a therapy session, maybe near a Sportman's Warehouse?
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