PrintLadies, let’s face it. Finding a good man isn’t easy. It’s even harder when you’re a horse girl—harder than finding the right horse, I think. (My logic behind this is when you commit to a horse, you already know you will have to take care of them, feed them, clean up after them, etc., but you are happy to do it).
Being a single woman has its perks. But I suppose at the end of the day, another person’s good company is what most of us are after. So we go on dates. The dating scene is rough enough as is. I’ve always said I prefer job interviews to first dates, because rules are usually already established. The reason you’re there is clear. But on a date, you really have no clue what to expect.
The guy might be rude to the server, might require you to do all the talking, might make uncomfortable allusions to his painful break-up, might tell you he’s looking for the lady of his house—it’s all yours, if you just want to commit (yes, that has happened to me before on a first date). They also might reveal characteristics about themselves that leave you wishing you had stayed in watching “Wonder Years” re-runs on a Friday night.
But alas, my fellow females who fancy a good gallop and some QT in the barn—dating is even harder as an equestrienne. Let me give you a few (true-life) reasons why:
- Scenario 1—man you have met casually one or two times before suggests you do something Wednesday or Thursday night. You reply that you have to body clip your horse. He gets offended, believing you’ve made up an excuse. “You can just be honest if you don’t like me.”
- Scenario 2—late one night at a social establishment (well-reputed), the man with whom you’ve just finished dinner (and who has now had two scotches) asks suggestively if you have a pair of chaps-without-fabric-to-cover-a-certain-area. You reply that all chaps don’t cover the buttocks area. That’s why we wear breeches or jeans under them.
- Scenario 3—you are enjoying a glass of wine, chatting with a guy you’ve only recently met. After telling him of your affinity for all things equine, he gamely attempts to make an effort in conversating on the topic.
“So, are all horse people the same,” he starts, “or do they come in all different spots?”
“What does that mean?” I inquire.
“You know, they say zebras come in all different stripes. People come in all different shapes and sizes. So what would a “horse” person come in?” he keeps going with this.
“Breeds. Horses come in different breeds.”
“So like, an American and a Mexican horse?”
“No,” I reply, by this time not even courteously playing along with the joke. “Those are nationalities.”
