Won't back Down

One of my college friends had a saying for whenever something unlikely or improbable befell me, or simply whenever I did or said something uniquely idiosyncratic to MCF: “It's gonna be a looooong life!” Indeed, his words have proven prophetic thus far on numerous levels. Life will always throw me curve balls, or put me in challenging situations. I am a clown, here to amuse and entertain you. Of course, I keep going and don't let any of it stop me. Life won't back down, nor will I. And while it often seems like I'm the star of my own sitcom, I know that we all have that unavoidable first person perspective, and I face problems and challenges like any other human being.

Saturday was an absolutely perfect and challenging day. Under a clear blue sky, I set out early for a long overdue day of paintball, the perfect combination of exercise and fresh air after a long Winter. For some stupid reason, while driving on the expressway, I'd occasionally think about panic attacks, and how they plagued me while driving for a few months several years ago. I eventually overcame, and all but forgot about them. Forgetting seemed to be the key, because worrying about those times when I'd feel lightheaded or like I'd stopped breathing was exactly the thing that caused those sensations. It was a vicious cycle. I was fine until one resurfaced during an important meeting, but knowing what it was this time around, that it wasn’t a heart attack and that nothing bad was going to happen, helped me recover and get back to normal much quicker, weeks rather than months.

Don't think about blue. If I tell you that, I guarantee blue will be all you think about. So on a perfect Saturday morning, with light traffic and a wide expanse of road, all I started thinking about was how bad it would be if I lost consciousness before reaching another exit. The wall alongside me loomed, seeming to curve over me, and I felt my heart rate going up. ”Faaaake it! IF YOU'RE OUT OF DIRECTION...!” I sang loudly and nervously along with the radio, trying to drown out my own subconscious. “THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD!!!” sang my heart in response. I didn't pass out. I didn't crash into the wall. It was close, but I made the exit, and at the first traffic light caught my breath and got a hold of myself. The danger was self-induced, and a bit embarrassing.

I can't understand what causes these incidents, why my subconscious mind can be on such a different wavelength from my conscious. I was practically on vacation all week. I went to a happy hour on Friday night. I was on my way to do something fun, and the weather was beautiful. There was absolutely no stress in my life at that moment, and yet there I was taking the service road for the next four exits in case it happened again. I guess I need to re-forget the sensations that trigger such an attack.

Distraction is key. Maybe that road was too open, my mind too clear and free to perform a self-diagnostic and question things rather than wander like it normally does when I take a long trip. At the field, I soon forgot it all as I met up with my group and geared up for battle. Once again, the day was perfect, and there would be no more curve balls, save for those filled with paint.

I'd borrowed a friend's gun, so before going on the field I had to have the speed checked by a referee. The kid pointed it and clicked the trigger a few times, to no avail. “There's a switch...” I pointed out, but he couldn't get it to work. “I don't understand this kind,” he said, handing it back to me. I walked up to the bench, took aim, and clicked the electronic trigger.

Nothing.

This wasn't good, but I was sure it was something simple like a battery. I headed back to my team's tent, borrowed a screwdriver, and opened up the handle. Inside, a 9V battery looked like it had a little rust on the end, or worse had leaked out. Cleaning the contacts and removing it carefully, I brought it up to the counter and asked if they sold batteries. For three dollars, I once again had a viable power source.

I hooked it up and brought it back to the range. Again it didn't work. The ref suggested that the gun might be jammed or need cleaning. Back at the tent, I removed the hopper full of ammunition along with the barrel and the CO2 cartridge, then tested the trigger. The basic body of the gun should just click forward without anything hooked up, but it wasn't. I shook it. I looked inside to no avail. I jiggled it. I pulled the trigger. The spring loaded launcher clicked and worked. I pulled it back again. Again it worked. I was going to be okay.

Back on the range a third time, the ref saw me and muttered, “THIS one again?” He pointed and fired a few times with success. “What was wrong with it?” he asked. I wasn't sure, but was beginning to appreciate the things I didn't need to worry about when using rental equipment, as weak as the rental guns were.

About halfway through the first game, the gun died on me again. “COVER ME!!!” screamed our captain as he ran out into the open with me for backup. “MY GUN'S NOT--” I began, when it suddenly fired, missing my foot by inches. I raised it and provided cover fire. We advanced, and we conquered the first field. I was less lucky on the second field, and after the whistle blew I found I could no longer get it to fire at all. I stayed pinned behind a barricade, hearing shells pinging against the wooden wall I was leaning against, until finally an enemy stormed my position and called for my surrender.

No one knew how to fix the gun. Most thought it needed to be disassembled, perhaps oiled, but I think more intense surgery will be in the hands of the owner. I'm afraid of making things worse. They let me use a rental, and I was able to finish out the day with a surprisingly decent gun. My natural “why me?” instinct was tempered by the fact that I'd be handing someone else a malfunctioning weapon on Monday morning. The problem was not mine alone, hopefully could be fixed. The worst case scenario was that I'd owe my friend a new gun, though I don't know if it will come to that. In the short term, I was still able to play.

As bad as we think things are, it could always be worse. During one of our breaks, we watched in fascination as an ambulance pulled up, and workers unloaded a cart and headed out onto one of the fields. Had someone lost an eye? Had the waiver stating that injuries were not their fault if people didn't abide by the safety rules finally proven useful? As we soon found out, someone had broken his leg. As more information trickled across the fields, we found out that it wasn't from some heroic leap or nasty fall. The guy was laying down in a trench, when someone came running across, didn't see him, and landed boot first on his leg, snapping it like a twig.

And I think my luck is bad. I should worry only when I have something REAL to worry about, and even then I won't back down.