War Games

I recently watched a rerun of King of the Hill. Hank and company were humiliated by a pack of teenaged boys who repeatedly pummeled them playing paintball. In the end, however, the old folks triumphed, good defeated evil, and there was peace on earth. In Arlen, Texas anyway.

I've long had a hankering to play paintball even though I know I'd suck at it because my aim is rarely true. Good thing I wasn't incarnated as Cupid. I've heard it hurts to get tagged by those flying pellets of paint. Considering I bruise like a peach and move as gracefully as an elephant, it's probably a good thing I've never pursued my delusions of grandeur in the paintball arena.

Laser tag is a whole different story. Do kids these days still play? It was an activity of choice when The Boy was a young teen. Being a mom who likes to be in on everything, I'd be the first one in line to accompany them to the laser tag facility.

Some parents would just hang around the lobby, the floor shaking from the loud thumping music. The walls were painted black with fluorescent accents. Some would drop off their little darlings and head over to Linens & Things next door to shop while their children stalked and shot at strangers and friends alike.

Not me. I'd strap on a vest, tightly grip my laser rifle and enter the dark maze that served as the hunting ground. The music inside was even louder than in the lobby. The walls were still black with splashes of design hither and yon. Strobe lights and shadows cast an ominous aura around the expanse of doorways and halls and little hidey-pocket spaces connected by ramps and surrounded by walls of various heights. Adrenaline had my heart racing.

Then the buzzer sounded and the game was on! I'd run to a corner and hide take a moment to get my bearings. Shapes and shadows would flash by in the distance, the voices of the players calling to each other echoing off the walls. Running in the arena was taboo, but we all did it anyway. Leading with my rifle, I'd duck and dive from one obstacle to another looking for my next victim target.

My only goal was to score more than at least one of the teen boys in our group. Just one. I'd be damned if I was going to be the big loser of the day. Thankfully there were usually smaller kids playing too. Size didn't matter in my quest for scores. I'd ruthlessly target the slower less savvy players who left themselves wide open. I'd zap them as I stumbled by giggling crazily with the sheer joy of success.

The round would end, the excited buzz continued as we returned our equipment and huddled breathlessly around the scoreboard. I'd poof up with relief pride to see my nick, Momarama (yes I know I'm a dork), near the top of the list.

It's the little things, people.
Don't rush by and miss them.

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