Mace in Your Face

I have worked in plenty seemingly-less-than-safe areas: downtown parking garages, poorly-lit parking lots next to wooded areas, restaurants in neighborhoods that seemed abandoned by the time you finished closing up from the last shift.

I've even lived in the suspect cities of Washington, D.C., Chicago and Durham, North Carolina. (For those of you thinking Durham doesn't belong on that list, please keep in mind they were on the hunt for a serial rapist during my freshman orientation week at Duke.) Even Birmingham is no picnic with its high homicide rate and large incidence of robbery and break-ins. And need I remind you of the potential peril that was my apartment in Nashville?

But, for most of my time in these jobs and cities, I didn't worry too much about my safety. (By "worry too much," I actually mean "purchase a firearm." I always worry -- it's just a matter of degrees.) If I could find someone to walk me to my car, I would. If I couldn't, I'd go anyway, keep an eye out and have my largest key ready for stabbing if necessary.

Then, I took a new job a couple of years ago, and I really started to worry. It wasn't that the locale was that different from anywhere I'd worked before, it was the comments I heard around the building that got to me, like "the security guard had to draw his gun on the guy" or "someone chased me up the stairs in the parking garage." (Plus, it was a genuine, bona fide runner who had been chased in the stairwell. She stood a shot. I, with my hobbies of wine and Lost, did not.)

Like a lot of my thoughts, none of it really went anywhere for quite awhile. I worried. Sometimes I worried more, sometimes I worried less. But it was still just worry.

Then, I met the Stunning Gal.

It was the Southern Women's Show of 2008, and I had to be there for work. During our occasional breaks from the booth, we would walk other parts of the show. (For those of you wondering, the Southern Women's Show pretty much involves a bunch of vendors stuck in the basement of the Civic Center for three days. Some people go to collect as much free stuff as is humanly possible, others go to shop their a%$es off. I was working, but also in the "grab as much free stuff as possible" category.)

On one of these breaks, rather than walking by the booth with free hand sanitizer again and again, I found myself drawn to the section of the Civic Center that periodically emitted a loud "Bzzz" sound. The Bzzz came from a stun gun, and Stunning Gal, as she is known at the show, sells stun guns in addition to mace, tasers, safes that look like Diet Coke cans and the like.

"I'll give you my show special," she said as I eyed a display case full of objects about the size of a deck of cards with various voltages written across the top. "Since you're working a booth, I'll even give you a price below the show special. You just can't tell anyone."

Suddenly, all my worry seemed to have a solution, and it was right in front of me at a price below the show special.

"I'll throw in some mace, too," she said.

A gift with purchase? The temptation was so, so strong, I had to walk away. I moved a few booths down and decided to give my SO/Voice of Reason a call.

"I'm thinking of buying a stun gun," I said. "But it could be that the lack of natural light and Mega-Vitamin-Water pyramid schemes have gotten to me. Am I insane?"

"Would a stun gun make you feel safer?" he said. Wisely, he did not address the second question.

"Yeah," I said. "I think so. But seriously, is this something I should do?"

"I think you should do whatever you think is necessary to be safe," he said, and our conversation came to an end.

With him in my corner, I was completely sold. A co-worker and I returned to the Stunning Gal booth, where my co-worker (with the far batter bargaining skills) got us each a pink one million volt stun gun and foam mace (it sprays foam that dyes your attacker's face -- how's that for an easy line-up pick?) for the low, low price of ... well, sorry, but I can't tell you. You don't break a promise you made to a woman that's always armed.   

I walked out of that Southern Women's Show with two means of self-protection, and I was quite pleased with myself. Maybe even a little too pleased.

What I didn't count on was becoming drunk with power now that I had these tools at my disposal. A girlfriend thought we should wait a few minutes before entering a store with shady characters at the door? Not necessary -- I'd keep them away. No parking attendant on duty? No worries, I could fend for myself. Dark paths? Piece of cake.

It was when I found myself walking through a parking lot thinking, "Come on, I dare you. Give me a reason to mace your face," that I realized I had a problem.

And as the SO pointed out, "Just because you can defend yourself, it doesn't mean you should stop using common sense. And you certainly shouldn't put yourself in dangerous situations." (For the sake of my father who is reading this, please know that I never really intentionally put myself in a dangerous situation. It was mostly daydreaming.)

He was right, and I relegated my stun gun and mace to the pocket of my handbag where they should be -- for emergency use only and as a last resort. The buddy system and vigilance are what I rely on most.

But, there's still nothing quite like the sound of a far-off Bzzz to get my pulse pounding, my heart racing and my mind filled with images of myself as a completely competent vigilante and awesome superhero.