Trials of a Horse Crazy Thirty-Something

"Perhaps I should go back to reading. Reading's a pretty good hobby," I think. I'm thinking this from my vantage point conveniently located on the side of a 14 hand Arabian mare, who is currently running without regard to her passenger, hanging in such an awkward and unconventional position. "At least she's small, and the ground doesn't look THAT hard," I think, watching the solid red clay whiz by beneath me, "I'm only about two feet up at this point."

It was the classic scenario: we were having a cantering lesson, which was a bit rough given my steed's tender age of 4 combined with the fact that I'd only been back to riding for a few months after a long absence from horses. We were cantering along, only slightly out of control, when Molly (the snorting, raging steed who looked so benign just one hour before) decided that she was tired of going straight and thought turning left would be fun. She had executed a very neat 135 degree turn...and I didn't. So there I hung, my left leg over the horse's back, my right foot awkwardly still in the stirrup, trying to hold onto the saddle and pull the horse to a stop at the same time. Of course I can't grab her mane-it's her best feature and I couldn't possibly risk pulling it out! After various unpublishable thoughts, I finally determine that there is no way that I'm going to be pulling my considerably-sized self back up onto that horse whether she stops or not, so there's only one other direction to go. I let go.

I discovered something very disturbing about the time that I turned 30: that's when the warrantee runs out. When I turned 30, I suddenly needed a lot more chap stick, lotion, and Ibuprofen than I did just the day before. How does that happen?? Anyway, today I discovered that 30-somethings fall much harder than their 13-year old selves did...especially if the 30-something self weighs roughly twice what the 13-year old self did. I think the ground shook as I fell. Animals screamed. Babies cried. For my part, I was just trying to get my breath back. Molly was at the other end of the arena, peacefully eating grass and looking completely unconcerned as to my fate. Mares!

My trainer, Mi...oh, I should change her name to protect her innocence. We'll call her...Lichelle. Lichelle arrives at my resting place, asking if I'm ok. This strikes me as a silly question. I start to say, "[various unpublishable epithets] no, I'm not ok. Call my husband to come get me. I'm going back to reading as a hobby." What came out was "AAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH." Apparently, "AAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH" in trainer-speak means "I'm quite well, thank you. Shall we give it another go, then?" because the next thing I know, she's standing with my horse at the mounting block.

She must be out of her mind, I think. I give her my best "Are You Out Of Your Mind??? I'm Not Getting Back On That Horse" look, which she returns with her best "I See Your Are You Out Of Your Mind I'm Not Getting Back On That Horse Look, But You're Getting Back On This Horse Whether You Like It Or Not" look. I cast a curse or two as I drag myself up onto the mounting block. Suddenly my 14 hand horse is as hard to get on as a 16 hand horse, but somehow I manage it, and somehow manage to finish the lesson, cantering sufficiently to get my taskmaster to release me, and limp to the car to drive home.

Thank God I didn't drive the stick shift today, because I can barely lift my right foot to gas or brake, and I can barely lift my left leg at all. The pain in my right hip is immense, and every time I move, I feel a horrible pulling. By the time I drive 35 minutes to get home, I'm absolutely stiff and the adrenaline that had gotten me from the barn to my car is now gone. When I get back to my apartment, I almost cry with relief that the space right behind our building is open. I try to get out of the car and almost fall. I am incapable of walking at this point, but luckily I have my cell phone so I call my Knight in Shining Armor, Gr....oh, I guess I should change his name to protect him, too. We'll call him...Leg. I call Leg, and when he answers I say, "I'm in the parking space behind the building. Come get me and bring a cane." Apparently in husband-speak this means, "Come out on the back porch, which has no outlet to the parking lot, and stare at me." He comes out with a somewhat dumbfounded look on his face-I haven't quite finished his training yet, so following directions is sometimes a challenge. In my best exasperated tone I snap, "I can't WALK. Come OUT here, and BRING A CANE!!!!"

I spend the next several days in the bathtub and go through enough Epsom salts to season stew for all four of the armed forces combined. I don't remember falling off as hurting so much! The last time I fell off was...probably 11 years ago at least. I had grown up with horses, but had to give them up for almost 10 years until I decided that I could, in fact, "afford" a horse again. I've been trying to come up with some sort of cute name for people like me, but Horse-Crazy Thirty-Something Who Gave Up Horses For A Long Time And Are Trying To Learn To Ride Again is kind of long, and HOCRS doesn't quite capture the right spirit. I'll keep working on it for the next article. For now, to my fellow Horse Crazy Thirty Somethings, I leave you with the following advice: two feet IS a long way to fall, and Wal-mart has those half-gallon cartons of Epsom salts for $.99.