A Letter to Two of My Biggest Supporters

Dear Thighs,

You. Yes, you.

Now, I know you aren't worthless. When I run/walk/pant 3 or 4 miles, you guys are right there on board. You don't moan. You don't scream. You don't beg for forgiveness. (Okay.. Maybe I'm doing all of that too loud to hear you... Maybe.) But when I ask you to trot without stirrups or, hell, trot for longer than 30 minutes... All of a sudden, you give up and leave me walking bow-legged.

I'm not cool enough to walk bow-legged, Thighs.
My nails are painted red, for God's sake, and I've never come close to winning my own belt buckle.

(I have, however, herded cattle in my jumping saddle. I don't think that puts me to the level of John Wayne.)

I hopped off my second and last pony today, and you two turned to.. Not jello. Jello can maintain shape.
I was not graceful or lovely, as Dressage riders should be (.. right?), and I'm glad none of the Littles watched me cringe as I toddled up to the barn.

And you knew this wasn't the days of working student-dom (-doom?). We still had Cows to catch and Littles to longe. As I stood there with my knees locked, leaning on an equally exhausted pony, I wondered if you were trying to warn me of something.. Some aspect to riding I had forgotten in my college journeys.

Then I realized that post-ride perfume.
And I was unsure if it came from the pony..
Or me.

Dressage is so glamorous.
Thanks for the reminder, Thighs.

Love,
Girl



Dear Girl,

Maybe if you actually did crunches, we would not have to compensate for your weak Core.

Sincerely,
Thighs