I write this piece, dirty and dusty, after 1.5 hours on a cantankerous horse that I think was trying to kill me today on a trail in the Santa Barbara mountains. We’re on a mini vacation on the outskirts of the S.B., and The Hubster and I thought it would be a good idea to take the kids horseback riding. Unfortunately The Babster didn’t make the age cut off so my lucky-arse husband was able to stay back at the resort and splash around in the 85-degree pool and stroll down to the private beach to collect sea shells and sing “Row Your Boat” while my ass and thighs screamed in horror as I rode astride a disobedient horse who tried to REPEATEDLY eat a swatch of grass near a 300-foot cliff while our guide kept encouraging me to pull the reigns and smack him in the ass. I did it once, and have you ever been on a horse who suddenly takes off running when your back isn’t ready for it??! It felt like someone was punching my vagina in the face. Again and again. Of course the kids’ horses were well behaved for the most part, but mine, who was trained in Spain, thought he was too good to get too close to the other three ugly American horses. He requires more personal space. And that’s why he bolted when another horse snuck up behind him and the velocity of that surprise nearly landed me in the hospital. All the while our guide, Jimmy, was scolding me about pulling the reigns and showing that 1,000-pound, quivering muscle who was boss. Uhm…duh…he was the boss.

All I can say is, that God my spine still works. I’m about done with horseback riding for the next…ever.