Country Mouse

A big reason I resisted blogging for so long is I didn’t want this to become some big apology. I wanted a place to talk how I really talk, make jokes I really make, and be as close to my actual self as possible. I won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. People-pleasing has never improved a life, that is for sure, but we will get back to that. (Somehow)

I mentioned I live in the country and I really do. Can you believe it? I love it a lot. Never could have guessed that. I grew up in a medium sized city in West Texas, but I was a city mouse all the way. I rode a horse exactly one time. I fell off of that horse face-first into cotton. Like, literal tufts of cotton were in my hair.

Ok, I have to backtrack. I remember more. I didn’t want to go, but knew I had to. Who tf isn’t excited to ride horses? I was already good at positive self-talk, as you can see. Ahem.

I had a bob hair-do, it was permed and uncombed. I had a small, sad wardrobe but I always aimed to be a flashy dresser even with slim-pickins. I stuffed my round cotton-like body (foreshadowing) into the only jeans I had. They were 2 sizes too small. I was sweating, but I got the damn things buttoned. I placed upon my feet a pair of white ostrich-skinned boots my mother no-longer wanted. She had a lot of fancy things. They were 2 sizes too big. So, they looked like scuba flippers on my 9year old feet.

Your girl tried to make it work.

It was early autumn and warm and I didn’t want to disappoint the nice folks allowing us to take a ride. “Aren’t you excited to ride?” “Yes,” I lied through the awkward sting of tears filling my beady eyes. I also really wanted to find a sly way to unbutton those jeans, I mean, I am pretty sure I was walking with a limp at that point. That, or losing oxygen from sucking my tummy in.

“Is Virginia OK?” (put that on my tombstone)

They tried to pick me up and sort of hoist me onto a saddle. I imagine that I looked like a human sausage link sacrifice, hovering horizontally in the air, the toes of my elongated boots getting tangled in that poor horse’s mane. I had so much fear yet they were nice and I didn’t want to be a wuss. I think I already knew it was doomed trying to button up my jeans earlier on my daybed: “This is going to be bad.”

Soon thereafter I hit the powdery dirt, cotton was airborn and snowing upon impact, I could hear hooves thundering away from me, and I totally called it. I slid down the horse’s big butt, blue sky blurred with shrieks of terror, and a thud. I was right: The floppy idiot boots. The suffocating acid washed jeans. The mouth-full of soil. The “yes” when I wanted to sit it out. The sight of the horse acting a fool in the corner of a cotton field. I totally fuckin called it. I wasn’t sad—-I knew better.

So I laid there covered in cotton until they could calm the horse down and I didn’t move an inch. I hadn’t been so relaxed in ages. The dirt felt like a sun-baked pillow. The hum of insects droned on. I heard their voices circling back my way. I unbuttoned my jeans.

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