(Be sure to do it in a catty fashion while using the name "Anonymous").
You may get the impression when reading my blog that in real life, I am a big, extroverted personality. You know the type for sure, because every stable has at least one. The boarders who hold court and loudly pontificate about their extensive expertise. While you are trapped with them in the tack room, viewing room, washroom... wherever they can be heard, demanding the attention of those around them, whether you think they are an absolute and total wank or not. People listen to them, smile, nod, laugh at appropriate times... not because they give a flying fuck about anything they say, but really just because can't get away from them, no matter how they may try. Might as well make the best of it.
But really - that is not me at all. I am fairly introverted. Quiet even, until you get to know me. I know for sure some of you have met me, and have no idea who the hell I am. Here is a clue to help you to identify me at your next dressage soiree...I am always the person standing off to the side watching events unfold, and being amazed and annoyed by all of the hypocritical and pretentious things that occur in any given situation. Then whispering cynical comments about these events to my equally as cynical and curmudgeonly peeps. Of which, there are generally always a few.
I am not implying that this is a good way to live one's life. It is just the way I am. Until the bath salts kick in, anyways. (Kidding. I am more of a meth head really. Kidding again, just in case you are a future employer screening this blog).
For example, I can't help but notice that our best riders do have last names, and that by referring to them only by their first names in mixed company repeatedly, waiting for someone to say "Ashley... WHO" doesn't make you cool. It just makes you an asshole. And talking loudly on about your trip to (insert awesome European country of your choice here) with your coach who apparently only has a first name, to meet other equestrians who mysteriously also only have first names doesn't make you special either. It makes you richer than me, or much more extended in your line of credit...one or the other. To this I say..touché. You go girl. Oh, and while you are at it, put a fucking sock in it, would you?
(I may also sometimes be identified by my inappropriate shorts).
Where was I going with this again... oh yes.
If you were not familiar with the horse scene, you may mistakenly think that this know-all pontificating occurs only in barns where people actually know something.
Oh, no. No. No. Absolutely not. Regardless of how lowly a barrel you think you are scraping the bottom of on the "knowledgeable place for horse enthusiasts to gather" spectrum, there is ALWAYS at least one...maybe two... of these boarders at every big and bustling equine establishment. They generally are not there at the same time, they do shift work - since two loud blow-hard know it alls running into each other in the cross ties is kind of like that old mindgame about the "immovable post" and "unstoppable object".
And if you need proof of this - proof of the fact that no matter how little someone knows, they will feel the uncontrollable urge to share their ignorance with you...
Just saddle up your 3 year old at a stable called MVA.
(You can get away with doing weird things in your stall, or in the cross ties, or even on the end of a longe line - especially when you are a middle aged woman. For people just assume that you are a horse petter with a grooming fetish and fear issues, and naturally stay away from you, terrified that you might actually want to discuss these issues with them. The zombifyingly boring tales that accompany every middle aged horse petters descent into grooming hell are avoided by even the most hard core blathering know it alls. They usually involve some form of a fateful day, a trail ride with yahoos, and absolutely no knowledge of the existence of the pulley rein).
|And then, back in '82, I acquired a plastic curry to go with my grooming mitt...|
But the minute you swing your leg over that hairy little horse that everyone wonders what the hell is up with... you are doomed. You need help, and there are lots of morons ready to provide their assistance to you.
I think if I am an introvert again in my next life (when the aliens reboot this simulation) I want to be a really rude introvert. Yes, even ruder than I am now if you can believe it. Because what makes being a polite introverted person starting your 3 year old so difficult is that you just aren't enough of a jerk to say "what the hell do you know? Fuck off." And this would probably go a long way to solving everything. And would be so very entertaining to those watching from the sidelines.
But life isn't usually like that, not for me anyways. Well, I guess except for that one day when I totally lost it, dismounted, got as close to being "in his face" as I could, (with my shortness and all), then screamed at Neil for a while. (Neil ....WHO?) We have a ways to go until then though. Something to look forward to.
(Mr. Motard kind of gets away with this but then he tends to deliver the message with a goofball smile so people are never sure if he is serious, or just messing with them. Amazingly never gets his teeth punched in (well, not yet anyways). I could try this but I don't think many would be convinced since I could not do it without sighing and rolling my eyes).
And so, from the minute I mounted up, I got advice. From absolutely clueless people. Including Mr. MVA himself, who was busily breaking his herd of polkadot ringworm horses. And from assorted other "coaches" and "trainers" who had taken up residence there and taught one or two of their own students in their spare time, and probably thought that I was a good mark - if only they could dazzle me with their knowledge.
Luckily things were pretty smooth sailing, for the most part (God only knows how plentiful the advice would have been had I actually needed help)...