🌻Horse girl

More memories unlocked

A friend of mine just visited family in Wyoming and discovered a love of horseback riding.

Ohh, horses.

I went through a major horse phase as a kid. Growing up, there was a week-long Girl Scout day camp at a local equestrian center, which I did at least two years in a row (shout out to my favorite horse, Leo, gray and speckled and very chill). There was a photo of Leo and me on my parents’ fridge for years and years, in a little paper cut out horseshoe frame that I colored.

Back then, I was constantly playing horses with my best friend. For the sake of privacy, let’s call her Jessica. And I mean for “play horses” to be as broad as possible. Jess had a collection of Breyer horse figurines. She also had the American Girl horse for our twin Samanthas to ride (and get into tragic riding accidents, always). Our Barbies rode horses. We probably pretended we were horses at some point. We poured over the Eyewitness Handbook and other critical reference materials so we could tell you about stars versus blazes, bays versus palominos, and all the other important horse factoids.

In about third grade, we hit the jackpot. We both convinced our parents to sign us up for real riding lessons at the equestrian center.

I remember going to The Riding Store on the other side of town (how is there enough demand in a city suburb for an entire strip mall storefront for just horseback riding? idk) and picking out my boots, helmet, and crop. I remember everything being so expensive.

I remember walking through stables to get to the riding ring, the dusty, circular space where lessons were held. I can picture being in a tack room as well—this probably would've been at day camp—learning about oiling a saddle and brushing your horse and whatever else. That mental image feels so fuzzy and far away that it may have been replaced at some point by a scene from a book, or a dream.

Riding lessons were not quite what I expected. I was very, very, very timid at that age, especially for anything physically scary, and am actually surprised I ever got on a horse (see also: my short-lived gymnastics career). All I remember from lessons is that I started at the lower level—how to adjust your stirrups, how to trot without bouncing, how to balance an egg on a spoon without dropping it, and so on—and just never moved up. I'm not sure if there was a test I couldn't pass, or if we all knew I was too scared to canter, or what. But after repeating a level while Jess quickly moved up, I decided to retire from the lessons.

But Jessica’s and my enthusiasm for the horse life only grew. The next level, of course, is to get a horse of your own.

We begged and begged our parents.

Amazingly, Jessica’s parents caved.

A dream come true! A horse for us to ride all we want! A real horse for us to take care of all our own! His name was Oliver.

I remember the exact moment when I learned that there was no "us" in this project at all. I was at Jess’ house after school one day to play, just like so many days (I was always at Jess’ house), and had only been there for what felt like a couple minutes. We were in the kitchen. Her mom got home and announced that it was time to go take care of the horse. Like it would be at this time every day? Remember, your horse that you wanted? That we now have to drive across town to take care of every day after school?

As I remember it, there was a brief conversation about whether I could or should or would come with to the stable, during which it was made clear that I would not, in fact, be able to ride the horse or really participate at all—ever? I don't remember why. Liability, probably. In the end I was "invited" to tag along to the stable but explicitly to watch whatever was going on that day. I decided not to go. I remember being embarrassed to call my mom to come pick me up after I had just been dropped off.

I never met Oliver. And I never saw Jessica again.

She was not free for play date, not ever, because she was at the stables.

Jessica was my best friend—in the way that 9-year-olds are absolutely attached-at-the-hip pretending-to-be-sisters best friends forever. And she had been for at least two or three years, which at that age is effectively your entire life.

Jessica getting a horse was, up to then, the worst thing that ever happened to me.

***

Years later, age 15 or so, I was on a family vacation in Mexico over spring break. We signed up for a "horseback riding on the beach" excursion, as you do. When we arrived, the hosts asked how much riding experience everyone had. My well-meaning parents flagged me as a veritable equestrian. I had, after all, taken actual horseback riding lessons!

I tried to protest, pointing out that that was years ago, I had not been on a horse since, and level one riding lessons are not exactly anything to brag about. But it was too late. The Mexicans gave me the spicy horse. Her name? Jessica.

We set off down the trail, single file through the jungle. Jessica was in a tizzy the whole time, shaking her head, prancing in place, and tailgating the horse in front of her so hard she could've bit it on the butt (and may have even tried). "Don't let her get too close to the horse in front of her, you'll get kicked!" I was told again and again. Thanks for the tip. “Just stay calm, horses can smell fear!” I remembered again and again. Helpful. I was useless, but we were going slow and were stuck on the narrow trail, so we survived.

The second we hit the edge of the jungle and came out onto the beach, she bolted.

Off we go at a full gallop. I'm pulling back on the reins but have already learned that this does not phase her. We're going, going, gone. The trail guides are galloping after us, coming up alongside like they do at the rodeo to stop the bucking broncos. Somehow, after an eternity, we stop. One of the guides trades me horses, and I ride back on a slow, old, steady horse.

Man, Jessica really ruined horses for me.

A few years later, on a college trip to Costa Rica, our class was signed up for another riding excursion. It was at a farm in the countryside, and my anxiety was at an absolute peak: Our activity prior to the ride was feeding tiny baby piglets with a bottle while they got their newborn shots. If that sounds fun, you haven’t held a biting, writhing, naked mammal while it screams bloody murder and drips milk and blood on you. Ready to get on a horse now, Anna? No thank you, I’m going to go vomit and then breathe in a paper bag, thanks. I was the only one who sat out of the ride.

Today, I still loosely identify as "scared of horses." I can’t think of a time I’ve been on a horse since Jessica. And I will not be leaping at the chance for the beach side trail ride on my next vacation. (If I was part of a group going, I think I would go. I might chicken out, though. My gut drops even thinking about this.)

And I don't blame Jessica, the human, for any of this. We were, what, nine? I don't think either of us realized what would be lost when an actual horse was added to our lives. Well, I didn’t, at least. I don’t think we ever talked about it, before or since. We did reconnect a little a year or two after she got the horse, but I remember it feeling like we were hanging out “for old times’ sake.” It was never the same.

I think of her often. She has a little girl of her own now—I only know because of Facebook— who must be getting to about the age when she and I first met in Mrs. Olsen’s first grade class. I wonder if she likes the same things we did, and if Jessica has busted out her American Girl doll, or Barbies, or Breyer horses. I wonder if her dolls get into tragic horseback riding accidents like ours did. And I wonder if she'll ever ask for a horse, and whether her mom would get her one.