Sometimes, with this horse-thing-jones-monkey-habit, I feel like I’m in love, like when I was a teenager and had some big huge crush on someone — or like when I was an adult and had a big huge crush on David Duchovny. The Duchovny thing helped keep me sane in a weird sort of way so that’s another topic for another time.
I guess the parallel is, however, that both of these things, horses and David Duchovny, have pole-axed me as an adult. Adults don’t get crushes on TV stars and adults do not fall in love with horses to the extent that when they’ve got a spare minute in their brains, they fantasize about grooming.
Love is also a big fat pain in the butt because it’s so consuming and distracting. Up until the time I met my husband, love was always a bad idea because it was the first notice that disappointment and heartbreak and stupidity were the next stops on the Love Train. And even when I knew how I felt about my husband-to-be, I was mad (“You sound angry,” he said when I told him that I loved him. “I am!” I shot back. Fortunately, he was patient and waited for me to learn that the love feelings were reciprocated and I wasn’t up Love Creek without an oar).
Sometimes the horse thing feels like that. Not that I want the horse to call me up and ask me out for a date or send me flowers or that I expect the horse to behave itself because it “really” understands me. The horse is a horse and it does its horse-thing which includes hanging out with other horses and getting plenty to eat and several naps.
On my end, the times between lessons and rides have become . . . the times between lessons and rides. How many days until I can ride again? When’s my next lesson? Oh dang, I’ve got to reschedule! Darned thunderstorm!! Life? Shopping? Huh?
To quote the J. Geils Band: “I’ve had the blues, the reds and the pinks. I’ve had it all. Love stinks (Love stinks!) Love stinks.”