It’s hunting season. Every man knows it. Every woman does, too.
This time of year, we wave good-bye as our orange-clad hunters disappear into the woods for days at a time. Out of sight and out of reach.
Last week as my husband, Bill — armed with hunting gear and enough food to feed starving children everywhere — drove away in a cloud of dust, I began to chew on something. He’d left a few cookies behind.
What is it, I thought to myself, about hunting with friends that is so exhilarating, so alluring? I mulled it over with a glass of milk. Then, I picked up the phone.
Within minutes, I was off with my friend, Joni, to go hunting. She knew of a great spot where there wouldn’t be too many people. We’d have it almost to ourselves.
No sooner did we get settled in than I spotted my target. Its markings were exquisite, black and tan, so beautifully formed. I held my breath and then waited to make my move.
“Joni," I whispered. “I’m going to try to get this one. You go on without me.”
Her eyes met mine in total understanding. She knew the look and went searching off to the side. Now, it was just me.
My quiet debate within me finally triggered a reaction.
“I’ll take it!” I nearly shouted, worried that someone else would get it before me, my eyes shooting in every direction. But it was mine.
“Oh, it’s perfect,” Joni cooed as I held my prize.
She was right. I’d been at the top of my game. Bagging a new purse had been exhilarating, especially with a friend.
On the ride home, we agreed it had been a great hunting trip. And looking at the tag on my handbag, I was glad Bill was out of sight and out of reach.