Laser Tag

I fastened my vest. I lowered my chin. I positioned my gun, fingering the trigger. The lights dimmed, the music soared. My heart ticked faster and faster. This was laser tag. The stakes? Respect.

"It's go time," someone whispered nearby. I took off running. Where? I had no idea. Strategy? Despite discussing tactics with the resident laser tag veteran, I had no idea. Everything I'd learned faded to the background as my adrenaline rushed forward.

My vest swung from side to side, banging into my rib cage. I gritted my teeth and reminded myself that this was war. Well, er, tag. But still. Laser tag. I pointed my gun at everyone I saw. "I'm on your team!" someone reminded me, running by. Right. Same color, don't shoot, I repeated silently.

That's when I realized I was prancing. And laughing. I shook my head to refocus. After ramming into an opponent, squatting in corners to wield the element of surprise, and even throwing a few over-the-shoulder shots, I strode out of the arena in a confident daze. Surely I had dominated. Surely I had left the other players dumbfounded by my grace and agility. They would discuss my mad skills in reverent tones for years to come.

Then I read the score card. My name was not in first place. Nor was it in second, third, fourth, fifth... My plan: laser tag birthday party next month. Redemption is near.