Things That Sag and Other Rider Woes

Has it been a whole week? Wow..
How about we talk about something really important?

It takes a village to raise a child, and to raise a young horsewoman, it takes support. LOTS of support. It takes a trainer with passion to nurture and grow; it takes a mom and dad who are willing to sacrifice certain sanity and wealth. It takes a reliable equine partner (to make it.. to learn, all you need is something with four legs that isn't a total idiot.). It takes someone with determination.

And that's all the support you need.
Well, until about sixth grade.

Unfortunately, I was reminded of this fact just this past weekend. I had driven to a larger city with some friends on Friday for a concert. I had two choices: a black v-neck tee or a flowy pink halter top. Normally, I'd be all about a v-neck (especially black. Covers dirt and grime SO much easier), but I'd worn my paddock boots to college not one, not two, but three days in a row.

My paddock boots are not shiny, brand new, trendy footwear.
They are not the same as these:


They are not even like these:

(though, seriously. Who put the pumps on paddock boots, for crying out loud.)

My paddock boots have been rained on, stepped on, sweated in. They've been muddy, dusty, soggy, squishy, and just plain old gross. Needless to say, I don't have any cute guys in my classes. Or maybe they've just been repelled by the boots.

Granted, I was feeling a bit guilty about wearing them THREE days in a row.

So, at the end of the paddock-boot-fashion-fiasco week, I decided I needed to inject a little "girl" in my life. Meaning, halter top. Meaning.. What the hell does one wear under a halter top? I have no halter bras, slingshots, boulder holders.. Whatever you want to call them.

The bras I do have are a bit like a Southern Baptist preacher. They're old, holy, and not too keen on supporting this new-fangled rock 'n roll stuff. Don't get me wrong, I love them (and Southern Baptist preachers), but they just weren't going to cut it this time.

Entering at A, the stick-on bra.

I bought one, stuck it on, and had a blast at the concert, knowing my sparkly pink contraptions from 8th grade were back in Somewheresville. (awaiting my return and most certain slump back into t-shirts and riding tights, I'm sure.)

However, Saturday morning rolled in fast, and my stick-on bra and I began the drive home. Due to a forgetful friend, we ended up thirty minutes late. I was booking it to get back home in time to teach Little lessons. With no time to spare, I rolled up to the barn, stick-on bra and all, and got to teaching.

Teaching Littles is a physical activity. You're up moving around, demonstrating, making them smile. It's part of the job description. (The best part, after watching them learn.) I get PAID for helping little girls have fun and learn about how awesome horses are. I get PAID for making each ride fun and silly and educational. Isn't that crazy awesome?

My job rocks.

I do a lot of moving in my lessons. There are jumps to be set up; there are stirrups to adjust. There are silly games and stretches we do. And midway through my first lesson, I realized I was moving maybe a little more than usual..
My stick-on bra and I had met the first bump in our relationship.

I resort to not jogging anywhere in the arena or doing any of our wiggle exercises. We made it through the lesson fine. With just one more lesson to go, I figured we could stick through it. (Corny pun totally intended.)

Unfortunately, my lesson mare was/is/will always be a complete COW. Little squeezes; Cow stands there. Little kicks; Cow stands there. Little turns a pitiful face to me; Cow makes a bold attempt towards the gate.

"Okay, Cow." I said through gritted teeth, knowing full well Cow is perfectly capable of being wonderful. "We'll start on the lunge line to get you going forward."

Cow glared at me but was perfectly compliant on the lunge line. We played Simon Says, using stretches and transitions and other tools Littles need in their toolbox. Cow trotted around while the seven year old did no stirrups. She walked when asked to, stopped when asked to, went on when asked to. Perfectly wonderful.

I took the lunge line off. "Okay, let's start with diagonals! Which one are you gonna do first?"

"KXM." She replied matter-of-factly and, with a determined scrunch of her face, aimed Cow's nose in the right direction. She nudged her. Nothing. Kicked her. Nothing. Cow stood there as if her hooves had filled with lead. Really, one would think she had died if not for the look of determination in her eyes.

I stared her down, trying to telepath the image of dog food to her. Elmer's glue. I think she got it, but if anything, it only seemed to underline her decision. There was no way on God's green earth she was moving.

"Okay, kid.. Hop off." The Little looked dismayed. "It's okay.. I'm just going to get on and remind her of her job." I pulled on my helmet and took the reins of the old bag, who balked once she realized we were not headed for the gate.

You must be kidding. Her ears flicked back, and her face got the same cranky look my Italian grandma gets when you tell her not to tear the leaves off the cabbage at the grocery store.

No, I'm really not. Move it, fatty.

I stepped in the stirrup and swung up.. And realized with horror that my feminine curves were not locked and loaded. No, no. Instead, I was "free". Sorry, 1960s feminists. It's not all it's cracked up to be.

It's okay, I thought. Indian women rode. Lady Godiva rode. Both of them did it with ease and grace, or so I convinced myself. They'd probably be proud to have my modern (albeit fly-trap-esque) brassiere.

I was fine at the walk. Even the beginning of sitting trot wasn't the worst thing I've encountered. It was the fifth or sixth step in when I swear I saw the image of a girl dragging along her saggy buxom. Someone in the background said, "If only she'd supported and not tried to do sitting trot with them.... Such a shame. They were far too young."

Lucky for me, Cow decided Littles were more fun than me very fast.

I slid off, landing gently to reduce potential future saggage. Ten minutes of riding, and I was already terrified my feet weren't going to be the first things that hit the ground. At that moment, it occurred to me that riding Indian warriors were male and that Lady Godiva only went for a walk down the street.

The minute I got home, I pulled on a holy sports bra and a t-shirt.

It takes a lot of support to raise a horsewoman.

-- Girl