TAG! YOU'RE INJURED!

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OK, let’s take a quick inventory:

Legs: Hurts to walk.

Knee: Swollen.

Elbow: Plenty of pain.

Looks like everything is exactly how it should be after trying to do something that people who are not within a decade of my age should try.

You see, I somehow forgot that I was 28 years old and went and played a game called Lazer Tag, where a group of people run through a dark maze shooting lasers (or, I guess in this instance, lazers) at one another.

There were about 20 of us there, and, although many of them may not admit it, I am fairly certain they are all in as much pain as I am. I think it is high time we put a ceiling on the age at which someone can serve in the military. It is clear that 28 is WAY too old to try and engage in combat. All we need is a bunch of people like me stumbling up to the Iraqi base saying in between pants, "Hold…on… time-out…let me…catch…breath…"

For those of you who have never played Lazer Tag, the concept is simple. Shoot anything that moves. Each combatant is outfitted with a vest and a gun. There are a series of patches on your vest that serve as targets for everyone else. When you are shot, your vest vibrates and your gun is rendered useless for about three seconds. When you shoot someone, a little voice says, "Good shot!" I assume it is part of the programming of the gun and not some of the other kind of voices that people sometimes hear.

When it is time to start the game, everyone’s vest is activated, and the group pours into a room about half the size of a gymnasium. Everyone is on their own individual team, so anyone and everyone is the enemy. It is very dark, except for black lights flashing throughout. Techno dance music blares, just in case the black lights don’t render you completely insane. Inside the room is a myriad of paths, winding back and forth and twisting throughout. There are partitions everywhere and, as luck would have it, they are painted black so that you don’t see them when you run full speed into it.

During the first of two games, I went into Terminator mode. I decided I would confidently stride through the maze blasting away without concern for my own safety. Turns out this strategy could have been called the New Coke strategy, because it was about as successful. With each confident step I took, some other crafty opponent would shoot me. From the side, from the front, from the back – didn’t matter. Every time my gun would recharge, I would hear the distant cry of "Good shot!" coming from someone else’s gun. (Or I was reading their minds. But I’m pretty sure it was the gun talking.)

At the end of one of the longer 10-minute stretches of my life, we took a short break before starting our second game. But the break didn’t last long. In no time, our vests were recharged and we were sent back into our indoor jungle. I decided I would need to employ a new strategy this time. Speed would be my ally during this battle. I began tearing through the maze, my swift legs carrying me through and my rabbit-like eyes guiding me around corners. Apparently, my legs were slightly more swift than my eyes were rabbit-like.

As I turned one corner at full-speed (lazer blasting everything in sight, of course), I came to an immediate stop as I heard the pleasant "Crack!" that sounded like someone taking a hammer to a coconut. In a moment, the pain receptors registered, and I realized that "crack!" was actually my knee, planting firmly in the corner of a wall, just sneaking between two pads. But I had to keep pace, of course, so I decided to forge on, despite the vicious attack by a stationary object. As I limped around the wall, I turned smack dab into someone else, and got their gun jabbed squarely into my elbow, completing the pain double-double.

I tried to continue as best I could, but felt a wave of exhaustion (read: nausea) swoop over me. I was winded, I was hurting, and I was getting shot by everyone (especially my wife, who apparently took out some frustrations during the match).

Of course, I tried to play it off to my fellow marksmen. "What a game!" I said. "We’ve gotta do this again!" I said. "Ambulance," I thought. Everyone looked as bad as I felt, which took some of the pressure off. There were several women there who had made the mistake of coming with full make-up and nicely done hair. Now, after a mere 20 minutes of urban warfare, they looked like Tammy Faye Bakker after a 3-day bender.

The next day, I woke and was pleased to find that, in addition to the two healthy bruises I was sporting, my legs also felt as though I had just sprinted from Seattle to Miami. It’s a bad, bad sign when you have difficulty getting out of bed after two 10-minute stretches of physical activity. My wife keeps telling me that she wants to go back and play again. And I’m sure she will. I hope she has fun and tells me all about it.