Wouldn’t it be great if your
basic, run of the mill reality pill could be cleverly contained in a delicious
little fruit flavored nugget? Or how about a chewable Gummy Bear brand? A
tutti-frutti, candy coated, saccharine free morsel of deep understanding that
not only leaves you with a new, profound, subterranean grasp of the universe,
but fresher breath, a whiter smile, and a look in your eye that says “Hello
world, you’re welcome.”
But, no.
A timely delivered reality
check is more like trying to swallow an expired, powdery, aspirin tasting hunk
of oversized shame that immediately starts to dissolve before you’ve had a
chance to drink anything, and then continues to leave an acrid aftertaste for
days.
Seriously. DAYS. No matter what you drink, or how many tubs of
Ben & Jerry’s you stuff down your pie hole you’re stuck with the memory of
that stupid pill.
Sometimes before a jump
lesson I’ll get all geared up in my brain. I’ll have my little inner-team
huddle going on, my locker room pep talk, my humble yet knowing smile that says
“I think we all know who won this game” wink, wink. And I’ll be so sure that when I broach
the idea of A MOVE UP he’ll be like
“Well, duh? Of course you’re ready. I mean, just look at you.”
Oh, stop. You flatter me . .
.
What actually happened is he
looked up at me on my horse, raised an eyebrow, and said “How many rails did
you have last week?” I happened to have two, I reply. Eyebrow lifts a tad more
(which is actually really impressive; when I lift a brow I go all in right from
the start). That’s when I start my rambling diatribe of how the poles were wet
from the fire truck hose and the sun was really bright and it made everything
shimmery and the first few horses had stops at THE VERY FIRST FENCE and it was
tough to get a read on the distance and that one stride was super long . . .
That’s when he told me to
stop talking. And when a former Olympian turned Olympic selector tells you to
stop talking, you stop talking. Like, yesterday stop talking. Like zip it lock put it in your pocket stop talking. Like shut up shuttin’ up stop talking:
So I did.
I stopped talking and I
listened. I listened and I learned and I
felt that hideous little misery encrusted morsel of shame start to dissolve at
the back of my tongue; knowing there wasn’t enough Mint Chocolate Chip on the
continent to erase the taste, and knowing that he was exactly right. Shockingly, that same tiny little bitter pill
that tastes like defeat today somehow morphs into success tomorrow. I don’t know how it does it, but it
does. And I accept it.
I just wish it came in
tutti-frutti.
