This is a silly light fluffy piece. I was inspired from two sources. First, by the very excellent web site called “The Carrot” where they wrote of Rolkur Barbie.
I highly recommend this site for a good laugh, and a hefty helping of sarcasm and wit! I love this site:
The second source is a friend with whom I was speaking recently. She was telling me the story of someone she sees at shows, and has nicknamed her Horse Show Barbie.
I hope you enjoy my version of Horse Show Barbie!
We all know a Horse Show Barbie. They have lots of help, are always impeccably dressed and coiffed. Their bodies are apparently a naturally occurring dirt repellant and they win all their classes.
I am not a horse show Barbie. Dirt clings to me and the arena tends to migrate from the area surrounded by fences to straight up my nose. There it forms little brown clot colonies.
I am not a horse show Barbie. I never do get around to slathering a layer of make up on my face so that I’m model perfect before a class. I do bring it to each and every show, yet it never does get to go on my face. There just never seems the time.
I am not a horse show Barbie. I quickly become a dust magnet after sweating so that I resemble more a crispy cutlet. Add a sunny day and some tomato sauce and mozzarella and I fry up nicely to a nice helping of ammie parmisian.
I am not a horse show Barbie. I clean my own stall, brush my own horse, tack up my horse and remember those little extras like bridle number, whip and gloves. My job is basically to transfer dirt from the horse, onto myself.
I am not a horse show Barbie. After a long day of showing I’m the one who looks like they’ve been rode hard and put away wet.
I am not a horse show Barbie. No hordes follow me singing my praises and stroking my fragile ego. When I fail and there is blame to place, it is solely upon me.
I am not a horse show Barbie. When I’m successful there is no pat on the back, just me in self reminder of “congratulations, you didn’t manage to mess it up”.
I am not a horse show Barbie. White breeches never manage to stay white. Neither does crème.
I am not a horse show Barbie: I slick my hair back and shove it into a show bow as neat as I can. Despite this, it still looks like drunken monkeys have done my hair. I could be the cover child for “Helmet Head Weekly”.
I am not a horse show Barbie. I do not have the figure, the wardrobe, the flashy vehicle. But unlike Barbie both me and my significant other have genitalia.
I am not a horse show Barbie. I do for myself and for my horse and riding to our potential is more valued than the placing.
I am not a horse show Barbie. My digestive tract is ever busy, only to be outdone by my bladder which seems to be most active five minutes before my test.
I am not a horse show Barbie. Barbie has never once gotten her monthly “friend” in the midst of sweating in white breeches. For me, white breeches seem to bring it on. I now avoid white breeches. My cellulite is disappointed.
I am not a horse show Barbie. Half the battle of the show is getting safely to, and then from, the show. The rest of the day is often my feeble attempts at damage control.
I am not a horse show Barbie. When things go well I know the effort has been all mine. When the partnership with my horse is solid, that too is my doing. Our doing.
I am not a horse show Barbie. I appreciate each and every moment and I live each and every moment with gratitude and grace of being able to participate in such things.
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