I was emitting my standard whinge about Rodney’s vast, gorgeous uselessness. Hubby replied with,
“Well, imagine how good you will feel when you are leading the victory gallop in Texas next fall.”
“Why not? You still have 18 months.”
He was referring to the American Eventing Championships, being held in each September from 2013 to 2015 at the Texas Rose Horse Park in Tyler, Texas. I can’t tell whether he really believes this or needs to believe it in self-defense. I think he’s been biking in traffic and inhaled too many carbon monoxide fumes. Currently, the future stretches in front of me as a comfortable, featureless, beige plane filled with an endless repetition of “petty tasks and worthless jobs”, occasionally to be interrupted by tragedy, and gradually descending into terminal rot. Of course, I could be wrong.
In his defense (Hubby’s not Rodney’s), IF Rodney and I could ever trot quietly into a show ring, we’ve got the moves. He (Rodney not Hubby) could be the mid-life-crisis horse that he was bought to be. It’s the trotting-in-quietly that is the rate-limiting step.
Should it all one day come together, I want it on file that Hubby always had faith that it would.