A dream, realized

When I was a little girl, all I wanted was a horse. What little girl doesn't? I broke my Barbie's horse's leg when I was about 7, because I tried to ride it. We super-glued the leg back on. Unicorns covered my room, beautiful, magical horses with a perfect spiral horn that gave off shimmering rays of light. Their majestic manes blowing in the wind, wreaths of flowers around their necks, ribbons braided into their tails. They were on my sheets, on my walls, on my shelves, in my heart.

One of my earliest drawings (okay, it was really just a scribble) that my mom kept was a horse. How do I know? My mom says I asked her for my "'orsey" for days until she offered me the piece of paper I'd drawn on. She discovered that was what I had been asking for, and wrote under my little drawing "Horsey." That piece of paper is still around someplace.

All my life, I wanted a horse and I wanted to ride. I read Black Beauty a thousand times. I owned several copies. I checked out those "Learn to Draw a Horse" books from the library. I was never able to draw anything that even closely resembled a horse. Every birthday wish was for a horse.

We lived in town, there was no place to keep a horse. With adulthood and responsibilities of children and a family to take care of, the horse was a dream just pushed to the back of my heart. It shared space with all the other unfulfilled dreams and plans I'd had. The pictures came down, the sheets were folded in a closet somewhere, the stuffed animals and the porcelain figurines were packed away into boxes and lost along the way.

Life happened, and it happened hard, for a long time.

My youngest daughter saw horses everywhere we went. She wanted them all. Stuffed horses, pictures of horses, books about horses, tiny little plastic horses. She slept with as many horses as she could get piled into her bed with her. Her birthday was coming and I thought maybe riding lessons were in order. I knew she'd love it, but we hit a snag. She was too young for lessons. We live in a really small area and the riding instructor who had given lessons to her age group had "Decided to go to ECU to become a nurse." This was, of course, told to me with much disdain.

One of the stable owners I called suggested I take lessons instead, then I could help my daughter learn. The instructor called, she was new and had a lady who was much like me, new to horses and wanted to learn and was interested in a Saturday morning class. An hour a week, on Saturday mornings. All I could think was "An hour on a horse away from the kids. I am so in." She said she'd see what she could work out for a Saturday old-ladies class and would let me know. (Okay, she really didn't say the old-ladies part.)

Then I realized something. What if I was too fat to ride a horse? I could imagine showing up at some fancy barn with beautiful stables and dozens of perfect, gorgeous horses being ridden by well-toned, extremely athletic, perfectly-in-shape men and women. I imagined going up to someone and saying "I'm here for riding lessons" and them either:

1. laughing at me.

2. telling me I was way too fat to ride a horse and then laughing at me while all the other people in the barn laughed and pointed.

I did the only thing I knew to do. I called my mom. "Am I too fat to ride a horse?" My mom is a little woman. When she was riding horses before she had us kids, she weighted 100lbs fully clothed and soaking wet. "Honestly, I wouldn't ride a horse at your weight." My euphoria was gone. Okay, so I'll lose some weight, I was going to anyway, this is just more incentive.

Then I realized something else. I had to tell that riding instructor that I was too fat. That was harder than knowing I was too fat to ride. I had to actually verbalize it.

Thank god she didn't answer her phone and I got her voice mail. I think I'd have cried if she answered. I left a light-hearted message that I had realized I was probably much too overweight to ride a horse, and that it probably wouldn't be a good idea unless they happened to have a Clydesdale. Given that they probably didn't, I didn't want to hurt a horse or have the ASPCA called on me for animal torture, and so I was going to have to pass on the riding lessons.

I hung up the phone, thanked God that I'd never met this woman, that I'd never shown up at the fancy stables and been laughed at, and that I never had to talk to her again. Until she called back about an hour later.

She was awfully sweet about it, and asked without being rude how much I weighed. I told her. She told me what she weighed, which wasn't as much as I did, but wasn't that far away either, and that she rode without any problems, and that horses could carry full-grown men and all their stuff and asked me if I'd just come try. She had a horse in mind that was good, and well-built with a wide back (Good for that, cause my wide ass was gonna need it), not some tiny little Arabian fine-boned horse that I'd feel huge on.

So I agreed to one lesson. I'll go make a fool of myself once. I begged my husband not to stay and watch, because I knew I'd be mortified trying to get into the saddle. I searched mid-summer for a pair of boots. I bought a "high-impact" bra that didn't do much of anything. I steeled myself with the knowledge that at least the other lady going would be older than me.

I went. I fell in love. His name was Ranger. He was a gentle, smart, stubborn Appaloosa Quarter Horse cross. He had a spotted butt that was somehow really endearing. He had a sweet face. He didn't cry when he saw me coming. He didn't groan and collapse when I sat in the saddle. We had a nice ride, it felt like something I'd been doing my entire life. My knees cramped like crazy towards the end and I was shaky when I finally slid off. He didn't weep tears of joy when I got down. I apologized to him a hundred times and promised I'd bring him apples next time, and agreed to another lesson the following Saturday morning.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I was excited. I was living for Saturday. I loved everything about it. I loved how he smelled, how his coat would shine after I'd groomed him, how his ears would turn to listen to me as I whispered how grateful I was to him for letting me ride him. I loved how he made me work, and learn. He was an incredible horse. I only got a handful of lessons with him, but I loved him. He was struck by lightning in a storm and killed. My husband, supportive man that he is, said I should have taken it as a sign when my lesson horse was struck by lightning.

The only sign I saw was that I was happier, I was less bitchy, I was looking forward to something I enjoyed and that made everything else seem a little less bad.