Mother Nature has been leading us down the garden path these last few weeks, pretending winter is over, tempting us with day after day of sunny, above freezing weather. I know better. I do. At some point she’s gonna wallop us upside the head with another blast of snow.
And still, I caved. I entered a rodeo.
Since the budget is fairly tight around here, this required consultation with and approval by my husband. Especially because he doesn’t get to come and play with me. You see, this particular rodeo is approved by the Indian Rodeo Cowboys Association. Which I am. And he’s not.
Still, he thought it was a good idea, since the rodeo in question is only fifty miles from home as the crow flies, and seventy-five as the American cowgirl drives because I have to detour around to the nearest border crossing into Canada. He put shoes on my horse. Came up to the indoor arena with me on Saturday and Sunday and tripped the chute gate so I could practice. He has been nothing but supportive.
Monday was, well, a Monday. I work ten hours days and commute an hour each way, which means stumbling out my front door at six a.m. and back again at six p.m. When I climbed out of my car on Monday evening, he met me in the driveway.
“Your horse is in the barn and the calves are in the arena. Ready to rope?”
Of course. Had to practice. Haven’t been to a rodeo in over half a year, and I am definitely rusty.
Tuesday I had a meeting after work and got home late. But by golly, he went ahead and wrangled the horses and the calves so I could still sneak in a few runs when I did finally roll in.
Wednesday was a really long day. Had a three hour meeting. Then another hour of divvying up the duties of the person who just resigned on Monday. Plus a quick meeting with our accountant. The couch was batting its eyes and making come hither noises when I dragged my sagging butt through the front door.
“Got your horse in,” my husband said. “I’ll be up at the arena when you get your clothes changed.”
I stood in the middle of the living room, fighting the magnetic pull of the couch, thinking lustful thoughts about the box of Tim Horton’s donuts on the kitchen counter and the half read book on my nightstand.
Just once, I wouldn’t mind if he was a little less supportive, you know?