Paintball hurts.

Does that surprise you? It did me. For some reason, I had it in my head that paintball was messy, but not painful. So, when my friend Tony wanted to do paintball for his birthday, I said, "Sure! Sounds like fun!"

My first indication that things might not be as pleasant as I first imagined was when I saw the weather forecast for yesterday. I believe the high was projected as 98, and we were starting paintball - an outdoor activity - at 2:00 p.m. Hmmm. Could be toasty.

Then I read the instructions for paintball. Well, they weren't so much instructions for the game as preparations, and they included things like, "Wear jeans. Wear long sleeves." Really? Long sleeves? Outside in 98-degree weather? Are you sure? But I supposed that was so you wouldn't get paint all over yourself - just your clothes, which you could take off and toss in the washer when you got home.

Then we arrived at the paintball place and I read the rules - again these weren't really instructions on how to play as much as "If you do these things, we'll kick you out" items. It said we'd be wearing masks, and you're not allowed to take your mask off once you've entered the playing areas. Masks? Okay, so I'm wearing jeans, long sleeves and a mask...in 98 degree weather. Uh oh.

Not being one to shy away from at least trying something, though, I convinced myself that I'd ignore the heat and just focus on the game. There were lots of people there, all in appropriate gear, and none of them seemed afraid of heatstroke, so if they could do it, I could do it. We went out to pressure up our guns.

This is where I should've gotten the message that I'm an idiot who had no business participating in this activity. I watched the guy demonstrate how to air up our guns. He then began to instruct us on something or other (I wasn't listening), and one by one we aired up our guns. I waited my turn and finally grabbed the nozzle for the air station and attached it to the thingy (a technical term) on my gun and KABLOW!! The instructions were halted momentarily while everyone turned to stare at me. A couple of the guys in our group came over to see what the hell I'd done. It would appear that the thingy I attached the nozzle to wasn't the *right* thingy - it was just a screw, so the pressured air just blew out like a bad tire. That would've been embarrassing enough, but in the process of that, I had blown out the o-ring in the nozzle as well. So everyone had to wait idly by why the attendant fixed the machine. Fantastic start - really.

It was finally time to play, and we hit the field. We didn't actually know what the goal was other than to shoot people on the other team, which in the first game, was each other (we just played with our group only, split into two teams). I caught one paintball to the head, and I thought, "Wow, that was fast. I'm out. And, uh...ow." I started to stand up, but the referee shouted "No paint! You're still in." This means that while the paintball did, in fact, pop me with stinging force in the side of the head (where I was unprotected by either mask or clothes), it hadn't actually broken. So, I wasn't out. "Oh. Okay. And uh...ow." I kept playing, but never got hit again, and our side won, so that was cool.

Switch sides and play again. This where things went horribly awry. Several minutes into the next game, I'd advanced to shelter behind one of the barriers and was looking for someone to shoot when BAM, BAM!! Extremely painful blasts stung my right bicep and right shin, almost simultanously. Also, almost simultaneously, I screamed out, "FUCK!!! I'm out!! I'm out!!"

Now, I realize that some of you out there may take offense to my sailor mouth, but I feel I must make a couple of points. 1) I'm not a parent. So, I don't really have much call for watching my mouth when not at work...and really, not so much even AT work. So, shouting say, "Fudge!" or "Oh my goodness!" when pelted with tiny, exploding missiles is just not very likely. 2) I was being pelted with tiny, exploding missiles.

I knew immediately that the "enjoyment" part of the afternoon was probably over for me. I limped back to the rest area and inspected my wounds, which were already bruising and swelling. Luckily, we had a cooler with ice, so I iced my two wounds immediately, which I think went a long way toward me not looking today like I was in an actual war yesterday. I cannot express to you enough how suprised I was at just how bad those damn paint pellets hurt.

If I'd sat and watched the other teams for a while before stepping out onto the field myself, I would've known not to go out there. As the afternoon rolled on, person after person came back to the rest area to show off new and horrific new bruises. It was truly disturbing. But not wanting to be a quitter, I did try to go back out there one more time.

You might think things couldn't have gotten worse, but you'd be wrong. When we went back out, we ended up on a field with another team. These people weren't kidding around. They were friggin' commandos. I think they would've shot us right in the face at point blank range if they could've done it without being kicked off the field. But that wouldn't have been necessary in my case, because I discovered during this game that something was wrong with my gun. While my opponent could shoot me full force from across the entire field, my gun would shoot maybe twenty feet with a high, gentle arc. So, I couldn't shoot anyone but they could hammer me without even advancing. Greeeeat.

I proceeded to cower behind a barricade, trying to figure out what part of my body to pop out into the open where it might hurt the least to get shot, so I could be out and get off the field. Zing! Another shot to the head. "No paint!" Dammit. A few seconds later, Zing! Another shot to the head. "No paint!" Aw, COME ON!! About that time, shing!! A graze to my upper thigh. No paint, and it hurt like hell. So, now I'm just getting bruised without even getting the sweet relief of being called out! Just when I'm thinking maybe I can just give up and call *myself* out, pow! Paint and pain all over my right hand. Thank GOD!!

I screamed, "I'm out! I'm out!" and stood up, gun hanging by my side, headed for the sideline, and ZING! Another damn shot to the head!! To my credit, I didn't scream an obscenity, but I did shout in a less than amused voice for whoever did it to stop, that I was clearly out and leaving the field of play.

At this point, I was officially done, and so was the other girl in our group who was playing. She walked away with two bruises that I swear to God couldn't have been any worse if she'd been shot by actual bullets. The guys played a few more games, all with other teams who were practically professionals. I guess it's a testosterone thing.

I can say that I'm glad I did it. I can cross it off my list of things that I've done in this lifetime. But I can pretty much assure you I'll never do it again. Oh, and if you're considering doing it, I'm going to suggest doing it in, say, December, when 2 or 3 extra layers of padding would not only be prudent but comfortable. I'll bring the hot chocolate and watch your extra paint balls for you in the rest area.