There’s a lot of psychological theorizing out there, about why someone’s whack might go out. There are the straightforward reasons: death in the family, jerk in the family, owning a bathroom scale.
But usually, it’s more amorphous. Something along the lines of “Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me, Think I’m Gonna Eat Some Worms…”
At times, the first kicks in the second. That’s a doozy.
I was at the point yesterday, of wondering if I was going to go for the fat red night crawlers, or the skinny white worms.
Why? I don’t know. It was a good day.
Whacks. Go figure. When they disappear, they leave mass destruction of psychological gray matter. Ben and Jerry repeat ring the doorbell, and peer through the windows. I stayed away from home. I did the grocery shopping. (This is not the smart place to go when one is trying to get away from Ben and Jerry.)
I got attacked by not one, but TWO old-fashioned donuts, pretending to be a healthy lunch. A big Vegas style sign appeared over my head, flashing: LOSER LOSER.
Oh for Pete’s sake! Get it right: the correct term would be; GAINER.
I have to get to the barn. Now.
I try not to talk. There’s a whine in my tone of voice that would make the most dedicated friend run for a bomb shelter.
We have a new boarder. Amy is 17, a size 0, loooong legs, and rides absolutely gorgeously. She’s stunning to watch, and has no idea how good she is. She’s also thoughtful, genuinely nice, cheerful, and positive. I take a page from her book and try really hard not feel lumpy, old, and jaded. She’s lovely to be around.
My riding goes fine. Ruby’s on decompress mode, and she’s starting to get the hang of…ambling. I inadvertently discovered nothing hits Tiny’s joy button more than being ridden bareback in a halter and lead. I make sure he gets Joy every third day. I’m checking on two other horses also. By the time I’ve fed, groomed, ridden and looked over everyone, I’m tired and thirsty. Forgot the bottled water. Dang. I can’t bring myself to drink the well water. I feel like I can taste the frogs swimming.
I walk up to the parking area. It looks down on paddocks and the covered arena. Carly pulls in as I’m backing out.
“NO!!!” she yells. “Knitting Teacher!! You can’t go! My knitting is all screwed up!” I laugh and we sit in the parking lot while I unravel her knitting to the problem point, and fix it.
How I became her ‘knitting teacher”: last week she asked if anyone in the tack room knew how to cast on. She’d forgotten. “Sure”, I said, looking around for a couple of lash ended crops to use as substitute knitting needles. (I believe in guerilla knitting.) Carly retrieved giant knitting needles from her car, and I rummaged around in the trash for baling twine. We practiced casting on in the tack room. I showed her an easier way to hold the twine. Er, yarn. We knitted up a nice neon orange baling twine purse in no time.
Carly said, “I looked down and saw you in the arena on Hudson, and I was SO relieved. I thought, ‘Oh good, my knitting teacher is here!’ You have no idea.” She says. “I’ve been so mad. I messed it up days ago.” We laugh again.
Wait. She thought I was riding? I look down at the arena. I drop everything and hug a startled Carly. She thought I was Amy! Her 17 hh warmblood is on the same basic side of the color wheel as Hudson.
Carly thought I was a size 0 and rode like THAT?
My whack is IN.