I used to ride horses. I was never great and I never competed, but one instructor described me as "a persevering rider". I rode western as a kid, then found myself missing it in college and took a job as a hostess to pay for lessons, English this time. The instructor and owner of the barn was a character named Bree, and as I got into regular lessons, she would invite me into her home after my lesson and offer me a glass of sherry. Eventually, she began to ask me how she could get a hold of some pot. And finally, if I could find some for her around the campus. Well, I didn't know what to tell her as I didn't number any drug dealers among my pals at Providence College. Not that Catholics don't smoke pot; I'm sure some do. Needless to say, my lesson format took a creepy turn and I stopped going. I was pretty bummed. After that, I rode rarely. My husband and I went on a trail ride during our honeymoon and I rode in a cattle drive two years ago in Arizona. When I was pregnant with my youngest child seven years ago, my husband gave me an extremely meaningful Christmas present: a gift certificate for three riding lessons at a local barn. That was back in 2004 and the paper certificate has moved often from one place for safe-keeping to another, most recently tucked inside my wallet like an origami cast-off. One day last week, on a whim, I drove over to the barn and told them I was ready to trade in my paper token for the real thing. I felt like a walking antique after I was dressed in my twenty-year old stuff. My lesson was great, though, and I had a lot of fun. I know now that fear is the only reason that I took action (to finally cash in my gift certificate). I was afraid not to ride again, and what that might mean to the scope of my life. It had been easy to defer extra-curricular fancies, and deny myself of doing the things that I love for many years. But that time needs to pass.
