More on women lawyers, guns, butterfat and blogging. Jeep

From our reluctant blogger Jeep reporting back about the highly anticipated yogic experience on the firing range that she blogged about last week.

I went to the range Saturday with my friend Robin, a talented patent litigator. As I mentioned, she thought we should take a class (I didn’t think I needed one, but am not one to eschew educational opportunities). It was organized like the cooking classes I used to take from Chef Eric — an hour in the cozy little classroom, and an hour at the range. The pistol prof told the students (Robin and me and 4 guys in attractive sneakers) that the Weaver Stance was better for women, but good for anyone. He said the Isosceles Triangle Stance was not ideal for women as it mashed our… You know…Chests. He asked whether anyone knew what an isosceles triangle was. Robin and I (in the front row) eagerly raised our hands. We swiveled around to see who else volunteered to speak. (I suppose I was reflexively assessing my chances on the grade curve, though there’d been no mention of a final exam.) No one else had a hand up.

“SAY WHAT triangle?” asked a couple of the guys. I tried to unify our disparate little group by making a tiny allusion to They Might Be Giants: “Triangle MAN!” I said, merrily. And smiled, waiting for the appreciative chuckles. None came. I clarified, “YOU know — he hates PARTICLE man?!”

I shrugged and turned back to the white-board. The prof stared at me with no expression at all, and called on Robin to tell the class what an isosceles triangle was. Robin used the word “acute” in her definition. The prof and everyone else in the room fell still. Even me, as I realized I would have defined it by drawing one in the air with my finger, not by using the word “acute” or any words at all. Her definition was much better. Patent lawyer.

The prof drew a picture of an isosceles triangle on the white-board and had us each approach his desk to take a gun (he called it a “weapon”) and put our legs a certain triangle way relative to our guns. Weapons. We got to trade the guns around with each other, which was a nice bonding experience, and practice our stances and grips. I was a little confused; too much like dancing, and I’m a poor dancer.

But out of the classroom, at the range — my practical performance was superior. I aimed a little Glock at my paper silhouette of an asexual assailant: Tight clusters, penetrating the heart.