Tomorrow I've got a show. At this point, everyone should know what that means. And it really shouldn't surprise me. I've been doing this since I was six years old. And yet somehow I keep thinking that I'll find some super magical way to make it not happen. Yes, I am the definition of insane.
This is me at dinner when I realized what my weekend had in store. Thank you, dear husband, for saving this moment for posterity. Should have ordered the margarita.
Like the bracelet? He got me that for my birthday. It says 'Can't Drive 55' and matches the halter he got me. I have a fabulous horse widow for a husband. He can also groom and has often been spotted videotaping me at shows. He's taken enough lessons to walk, trot, canter, jump small cross rails, and continues to surprise me by walking through the room and announcing things like 'that pirouette was too big' when I have dressage competitions on. I guess he really does listen when I'm rambling.
End tangent.
Today I was at the barn from about noon to about 6:30pm. Fiona seems to be starting a new tradition of twisting her right hind shoe before every show, so I had the farrier out to repair that and look over her other shoes, just in case. I also did all of the usual pre-show things: ride, bathe, clip, brush, braid, scrub, pack, wibble at the schedule, consider packing alcohol, discuss beer bongs with impressionable teenagers (don't ask), watch Fiona get yellow Likkit all over her new braids, braid my trainer's youngster (who did NOT want to be braided, thank you ever so much), reconsider the alcohol, and realize that laundry would be a really good idea. I should be in bed already since I have to wake up at 3:30am tomorrow. My first ride time is 9:10am, and I'm the first ride of the day. The last ride for our group is 5:30pm. I don't expect to be home until 9pm.
Suddenly, that face makes a lot of sense. Pass the margaritas.
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