If you’ve been following the shenanigans on Facebook, you know that earlier this week, I put on my show boots to discover that, thanks to my new exercise regime (P-90X, which I LOVE), my calves have gotten a wee bit bigger. Which means that my boots do not fit. At all. Three days before the show.
It’s been a rough week.
Step 1: Go to local tack shop and buy everything dedicated to making boots bigger and easier to get on/off: Fiebing’s Boot Stretch, Fiebing’s Boot Spray, boot stretcher gizmos.
A few discoveries about these products. First, they STINK. I mean, really, really smelly. Second, the Boot Spray has given my right leg an awe-inspiring rash. And the boot stretcher gizmos are apparently sexed, which I didn’t realize in the store, and the ladies’ stretchers are designed for cute petite ladies, not Amazon Warrior Princesses like myself.
Step 2: Suffer. I rode in them. And rode in them. And wore them around my house. And walked up and down stairs.
Step 3: Apparent success! I rode in them from my first horse to my last on Thursday, so off to the show I go.
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But there was a flaw in my plan. I’m on my first horse at home at 6:45 a.m., and done by about 10. My calves are all well-rested and adorable at that hour.
But as I slipped (read: wrangled) them on yesterday at the horse show, it became immediately obvious that my calves are not so demure by 5 in the evening. They IMMEDIATELY shut off circulation to my legs, particularly my right leg, the primary offender.
I think that if I can just get the first few minutes to go by I’ll be fine, so I hop on Midge, who is, thank god, SAINTLY well-mannered, but by the time we get to the arena I know it’s hopeless. I’d only planned on doing 20 minutes of fluffy work, which I told Michael he didn’t have to supervise, but because Michael’s a good guy (“No! Of course I’m coming! That’s my job, to support you!” Bless him), he shows up as I’m sweating and holding back tears and generally being a huge pansy.
Midge, fortunately, got the memo that his mom needed some help, and so he was a TOTAL pro, even keeping his boogering at the horse-trailers-cum-judge’s booths to a civilized minimum. And like the Amazon Warrior Princess I am, I practically burst into tears after 10 minutes and told Michael I had to quit.
It took the efforts of three people to get me out of said boots, and then a lot of cursing and limping afterwards, but I am, after it all, totally fine. But you bet your butts I’m wearing the backup boots to show in, and come Monday, they’re heading straight for the cobbler.
