If it would do any good at all, I would hurl myself onto the floor and explode into a weeping rage. By “do any good,” I mean if it (the tantrum) would produce a change in the weather. A series of big-butt thunderstorms passed through Central Ohio. Yea and verily, I saw the multi-pronged bolts of lightning strike the ground and from my vantage point in my car, the ground they struck looked pretty close to my stable.
So, funny pants* and all, I came right back home but stopped at the grocery and bought stuff. Just stuff. Beer. Cherries. Sliced kiwi fruits. Cherry pie. Soup. Aged gouda.
If I can’t ride, then I’ll graze.
Dadblast.
*My summer riding tights are funny pants, looking almost like something you’d jog in but for the faux-leather patches on the knees and the muddy paddock boots on my feet. I think the boots gave me away as a true eccentric. God. Remember when you were a teenager and wouldn’t have shown up dead in public wearing such awful clothes? Times change, at least in your head.
