No, like, literally. I am. Or at least I was, Sunday.

I used to ride horses when I was a little girl. I don’t remember quite how it all started but my dad reports that he took me to ride when I was a wee one (maybe three years old) which basically involved him pulling a nag around with me on it in the 100 degree soupy Houston heat through the muck for an hour. Sounds tempting, don’t it?

Apparently the horse I was on started to buck a little and he was about to grab me and pull me off when one of the stable hands said “oh no, leave her own thayuh,” so he did even though I was crying a little. And at the end he figured he would never ever have to take me to do that Godforsaken thing again. But then of course I loved it and asked when we could repeat the experience. Kids are funny that way.

Reminds me of the time when I was a teenager and I offered to take the neighbour’s boys to AstroWorld, which is an amusement park in Houston. They were pretty young, like maybe six or seven and eight or nine. And they wanted to go on the Texas Cyclone, which is a very large, very scary, very high wooden roller coaster that has a couple major drops in it. I was like “are you sure — are you 100% sure you want to do this?” They nodded, eyes wide. So we went.

Naturally we could sit only two across so the older kid had to ride next to a stranger and I climbed in next to the smaller one. I kept looking over at the little guy during the ride and he looked absolutely terrified. Like catatonic. And I remember thinking “oh, shit. My neighbour is going to kill me because I fucked up her kid for life and he will have PTSD and will become a mute and never be normal again after this death-defying experience.” I imagined being unemployable due to my utter disregard for finding age-appropriate activities for children under my care; ivy league schools would pass me up. People would walk by me on the street and whisper and point: “there’s the girl who ruined that dear little kid’s life…” you get the idea.

So when the ride finally ended and the coaster ground to a halt, we stepped off and I dropped down on one knee and looked right into this kids’ eyes and said “are you all right?” And he was totally unresponsive. Colour drained from his face, eyes bulging with terror, mouth agape. For about a tenth of a second, that is, until he piped up, having hardly shifted his expression “let’s do it again.”

Anyhow, big digression but I hadn’t thought of that in a long time and it still gives me a chuckle. So, back to horses and such.

I took lessons on and off (mostly just in the summers) for years and stopped around the time when I was in junior high. I went riding once when I was in college with some friends but that doesn’t really count.

Fast forward to the present day. It came to pass that my younger daughter, Charlotte, was invited to a pony party for a classmate’s birthday. I knew that the mom of said classmate was an avid rider and horse enthusiast so I (rather sheepishly) emailed her the morning of the party and asked if I might get on a horse during the pony party myself, seeing as I would be there for the duration, if it wasn’t too much trouble.

When we got to the stables each child was set atop a darling little pony and there in the ring waiting for me was a full-sized horse. Not huge, by any standards, but a horse, not a pony, nonetheless. Meet Choco. That’s “chalk-oh” not “chough” as in dough. Choco still had most of his winter coat because it has been so friggin’ cold here that the poor thing needed it up until now. He was about 15.2 hh (a hand is four inches if you don’t speak horse) with a long back and had a blue roan coat.

So I climbed on fuzzy Choco and was led around for a while to get my sea legs. It was both familiar and unfamiliar. I felt comfortable and perfectly balanced but I could not remember certain details such as when I should post (rise while the horse is trotting), when the horse’s inside or outside leg was leading. The nice young man leading me around refreshed my memory and when he realised I wasn’t a total loser he let go and allowed me to proceed alone. Choc’ wasn’t the most energetic fellow and every time I got him to trot he would stop around the corners. I attempted to improve my technique for about twenty-five minutes and did a lot of squeezing and kicking and then when asked if I wanted to join the kids in their pony games (these are like reindeer games but with ponies, in case you were going to ask that) I said “sure.” Such games involved relay racing (by walking) to a fence post and once there, touching one’s head, shoulders, knees (yes, you guessed it — and toes) and then the horse’s ears and tail before trotting back to the starting line. I participated in this and was completely unembarrassed as the children and other parents looked on. I mean, why not, right?

I was starting to feel pretty confident and then when it came time to dismount I sort of forgot that you have to drop both stirrups before swinging your right leg back over the horse and I almost fell off like an idiot but then mid-swing it felt wrong and I sat back down and did it the right way. Some cowgirl I am. Pathetic.

Once on solid ground again I had that bowlegged stance and could barely walk. And then when I got home I discovered some interesting chaffing in certain, ahem, areas. And some more chaffing on the insides of my calves where the seam of my jeans had rubbed against the stirrup straps.

And man oh man oh man was I (and still am) sore as the deuce. Listen, people, if you want firm thighs and buttocks, get you on a horse. It may have been only 30 minutes but squeezing with your legs for that long will do it for you. I guarantee it. That and mechanical bull riding, which I plan to delve into next week.

So here I am, still slightly bruised, no longer bloodied, plenty chaffed and sore. And I can’t wait to do it again. Only next time I am going to wear padded underwear or Depends or something and chaps. On the upside, I don’t have to worry about a supportive bra. Because let’s face reality: Jane and Marjorie aren’t going anywhere.

After this enjoyable experience I thought about whether I might have liked it even more because of the shit year I had last year and my “new perspective” on “living life to the fullest.” Maybe. But I cannot lie and claim that the old me would have been embarrassed by playing Simon Says on horseback with a group of six-year-olds on ponies no larger than a Great Dane. One of the best parts was how delighted my daughter was that I had been riding “by myself” on a “huge horse.” It really is all about individual perspective, dontcha think?