Sparkly Pink Unicorns

When I was a teenager and deep in the throes of my-very-own-horse-at-long-last bliss, I received as a Christmas present from my fake Uncle (don't try to tell me that you don't have "aunts" and "uncles" who aren't related to you, too) and former partner in the horse biz a set of fluffy polo wraps in a very bright robin's egg blue.   I adored them.  They were blue (my favorite color) and they were fun! 

But why, I wondered, had Uncle Alex chosen that particular shade of blue when my show colors were the same solemn navy and grey as my father's?

"Because he probably did it to annoy me," my father the equine-conservative answered.  Yes, I would like to introduce that phrase into your lexicon. Let's just diverge for a second.

 The equine-conservative is someone for whom rust breeches is a bold statement.  Their colors are never bright anything, but always one of the traditional hunter colors of navy, grey, maroon, and well, hunter. When riding after the hounds, the equine-conservative always carries a turkey sandwich in his or her sandwich case. Belts will always be worn, even if you're breeches fit just fine thank-you-very-much and even under a hunt coat where no one can possible see it (ask me how I know this).  And "bling" is a dirty word not to be uttered in polite company.

So, you can imagine that my fervent and repeated pleas to dress my horse in twinkle toes and some Sleazy Sleepwear fell upon deaf (if slightly horrified) ears. Eventually, I grew up like many children do.  That is to say, I became my father.

 Yes, that's right- I'm now an equine-conservative myself.  Well, mostly. Ask to see my belt now, Dad! *Proudly parades around in belt so heavily encrusted in bling it actually pulls breeches down instead of keeping them up*


But I digress.

I simply want you to understand where I've come from so that you'll better understand the predicament I'm in now.  Since I upended my life and move a thousand miles away, I've found a new barn and a new trainer and started riding again.  My new trainer really is great, so much so that I'm willing to ignore the fact that lessons are more than I wanted to spend and the barn is farther than I wanted to drive.  But there is one thing that's beginning to be a bit of a problem...

Of the equines in the school horse string, I would estimate that a mere 30% are over 14 hands and a slim 1% are over 16 hands.  Indeed, the majority of mounts for riding lessons are adorable fluffy ponies.  Their riders? Equally adorable little girls in jodhpurs and pigtails. Yes, I am a bit of an outlier. Thank you for noticing.

Let me share with you one more percentage: 50% of the communal square pads for lesson use have pink somewhere on them. Pink. Bright pink, pale pink, one even has- yes, you guessed it- sparkly pink unicorns adorning the border. I'm grimacing my best grouchy-old-lady frown just writing about it.  I am not an adorable little girl on a fluffy pony, I am a stodgy, traditional, 20-something equine-conservative gosh dangit!

So, each time I go to tack up my horse for a lesson, I feel like I'm playing saddle pad roulette.  Please, please, please let the green one, the black one or even the tattered white one be clean! I mutter under my breath making the long walk to the tack room.

So far, I've been pretty lucky, but I know one day my number will be up and I'll walk into that room, look on the shelf and staring back at me will be the cheerful smug eyes of the sparkly pink unicorns.  Oh, I'll look around frantically for any other saddle pad that might be hiding under a saddle or in locker, but none will be around.  And there I will be, a slightly round, 20-something equine-conservative on fluffy draft cross with a bright pink sparkly unicorn saddle pad.

I'm just not sure my very precarious dignity can take that kind of a hit. So, I've done what any sane mature adult would do..... I asked my mommy to send me a care package from home filled with my old saddle pads.