Mr. Motard helps me move.

**Alert** Contains more graphic language than usual.  But I swear it really happened.

I bet I know another thing we have in common.  How many of you have a significant other that thinks you are ENTIRELY INSANE for even participating in this sport?

Anyone?  Oh come on, don't lie.

We will call mine, Mr. Motard.

Yes.  This is really a picture of Mr. Motard.  It is not Liz's boyfriend.

Of course, when choosing a partner to compliment one's horsey lifestyle, the ideal would clearly be to find one that is really rich and fairly busy, so you have plentiful time and money to go about neurotically pursuing the hobby.

Easier said than done, there are only so many of these to go around and they are difficult to find in the first place, let alone capture.  Count me among the failures in this department.

So I know a compromise many of us have found works relatively well is to find a S.O with a hobby that is equally as time consuming and expensive as Dressage.  Thus, the prevalence of motorsports, sailing and aviation among spouses.  That way, you can agree on a "don't ask don't tell" policy regarding expenditures, and keep relative peace in the household.

Sailing and Aviation are preferred I think because they also have monthly fees associated with either the hanger or the slip, similar to boarding a horse.  Unfortunately for me, motorcycles are quite content to hang out in the basement gathering dust and not accruing any costs all winter, which doesn't make for quite level playing grounds.  Still, not a bad compromise.

But no matter how level I may be able to convince Mr. Motard the playing field may be in terms of obsessive hobbies, time, money - I can't even begin to put a dent in his hard wired perception that the people of dressage are all nuts.  It doesn't help that Mr. Motard is a bit different himself - he is an Engineer, after all, and is a bit like Sheldon Cooper, only better looking and more interested in sex.

Part of the problem is that he doesn't come out to the barn a lot, but only shows up for special occasions.  He doesn't see us do all of the normal things we do.  Like conversing with cats in goo-goo voices, apologizing to our horses for poking them in the eye while putting on bridles, or arguing with our boots re: NO our calves are NOT getting fatter and how maybe THEY are the ones with the problem.  Totally sane and rational daily stuff.

Instead he sees the extreme things.  Like the Christmas parties where the barn manager is riding around drunk and backwards on the resident shetland pony.  Or any horse show, where grown women are walking around crying or yelling. In fact, sometimes that woman is me.

A favorite instance was a time where a totally out of control horse ridden by a beautiful blonde Young Rider in full top hat and tails came barreling up the hill to the back stable ghetto at Palgrave at a flat out gallop, with the rider leaning back and hauling on all four reins while screaming "FUCKINGGGG CUNTTT!!!" at the top of her lungs.

Mr. Motard paused, then said "Now that can't be the horse's real name.  Does it actually say that on the little brass plaque on its halter?"

He often asks me if I see Cunt at shows, and if she is doing well.  And also why I picked such a boring name for my horse.

And this all really started... the day he helped me move the Platypus.  Due to the incident involving the chin-up.