Snapshot of the inside of my head:
I haven’t organized a saddleseat lesson.
I can’t find a horse to go look at, much less buy.
I haven’t followed through on my mysterious initiative with Rodney.
(We won’t even discuss my writing career, exercise plan, housekeeping regimen, or so on.)
I am a horrible person. I wallow in sloth. I don’t deserve the gifts I have been given. I’m too old. I’ve let too much time go by. I should go eat worms. Hello tailspin, how have you been?
Over on the rational half of my brain, I did the math. Mathilda takes 3 hours a day, minimum: two grazing sessions of an hour each, plus water breaks & meals. (Hubby changes the water buckets & cleans the pen.) Rodney’s heat therapy is another hour. That constitutes half a workday before I pick up a brush or do a single exercise.
I don’t bewail my fate to incite a pity party, although I will always take any brow mopping being offered. I say this outloud and online in an effort to remind &/or convince myself that there are legitimate reasons why I am pedaling madly with a slipped gear chain, rowing furiously with my boat tied to the dock, or whatever other dysfunctional transportation metaphor you care to employ.
My second clearest Olympic memory from Atlanta is of the horses. I can still see the French Eventing Team coming off the trailer projecting, “Nous sommes ici!” In the barns, the horses were vibrant, alert, curious. They looked as if riding them would be both a handful and a whole lot of fun. Either Olympic-level sport selects for this level of engagement or Olympic-level training brings it out.
My clearest Olympic memory is of two Big Name Riders having a shouting match on the path from the barns to the ring. BNR-A said, “I think, for once, you should do as you’re told.” and stomped off. BNR-B stood on the gravel looking small and stricken. I thought, you can’t yell at him, he has an Olympic medal.
What was your ‘They’re just people’ realization moment?