Between reading Junosmom's blog, and thinking about six random things about myself to respond to FivelittleZarcones' tag, and reading Little Britches aloud to my children, I realized that I don't really like horses. I might even be afraid of them. And I think I know why.
Waaaayyy back in time, when I was about five years old, my dad decided we needed a pair of Shetland ponies. (This was back when watching TV meant choosing between three black-and-white channels, and that was only on good days, when the sky was clear. So we spent a lot of time outdoors.) So one day he unloaded into our back pasture two small, gentle-looking ponies. Babe was short but fat, with thick chesnut hair, and the mother to Toby. It was easy to tell them apart because Toby was shorter, fatter, had sandy-colored hair, and escaped every chance he got, while Babe always stood around, placidly munching grass.
Naturally, my dad figured small children + small ponies = BIG FUN. So it wasn't long before he decided I needed to ride Babe. Dad bridled her, and all went well until we got to the actual riding part. Babe had no more intention of being ridden than Hillary Clinton does of being Republican, so she bucked me off, and then went back to eating grass.
In thinking back on the event now, I realize how absurd it was. How does one get bucked off by a docile, tiny pony named "Babe?" It's an oxymoron, like being treed by a killer chihuahua named "Bitsy," or mauled by a carnivorous goldfish named "Howard." Good grief. If I'd had a pet turtle named "Marshmallow," I'm sure he would have trampled me to death. Such is my life.
Anyway. Now that I've reflected on how that event from my childhood affected me, I've remembered other things that probably damaged me for life. Like the Easter my mother bought me screaming yellow patent leather shoes, and a purse to match. No wonder I'm such a walking fashion disaster today.
Where am I going with this? I have no idea. But I bet I'm going to have some interesting dreams tonight.