But this past Friday night I not only slipped into a black plastic faceguard, but I strapped on a chest shield, too. I’m a subscriber to certain beliefs — the kind that say ladies don’t spit, cuss or shoot — and I thought it would take an act of Congress to get me on an artillery field. Not because he’s a man — a lot of men give orders and I rarely pay attention — and not just because he’s in the military. On the paintball field Friday night, I heard the pop-pop-pop of rapid fire before I felt the sting of a bullet on my neck. My neck throbbed where the bullet had nailed me and my hands shook from the post-adrenaline buzz, but I smiled wide beneath the facemask when my gun-toting, mask-wearing hunk of a date led us to victory. read more
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