Paintball

My oldest nephew turned 12 recently. He said he wanted to have a Paintball party.

He's a big University of Oklahoma fan. I usually don't make a big deal out of it, but I do generally try to wear something orange when I know he's going to be around. For his paintball party, I wore a bright orange Oklahoma State University shirt.

When we showed up, my brother-in-law pointed over at a table by the front door. "You need to sign a waiver," he said. "What? I'm not playing." "You are now!"

Before I knew it, I was being fitted for a mask. Puny little me, on a paintball field... in a bright orange shirt.

I'll pause here to give those who know me personally some time to complete their hysterical laughter.

[pause]

So. It went badly. (surprise!) Three seconds into the first game I got nailed in the shoulder, hard.



Yes, there is a small bruise under that spot. No, I won't show you.

Turns out that when a paintball explodes on you, it quickly dries into this substance that's kind of a cross between cake frosting and candle wax. Before long, I looked like I'd had an accident while glazing donuts.



My left leg in particular was coated. If a couple of those shots had been about 6 inches higher I'd be singing soprano, if you know what I'm sayin'.

I've already told my sister that I won't be able to make Nephew's next paintball party. I'll be doing my hair that day.