Talk about extreme envy.
When I read Kristin Carpenter’s poignant column, “The Souls The Barn Builds,” I turned a deep and unflattering shade of green wishing I’d had her childhood. Then I imagined a version of reincarnation where you pre-order your upcoming life. “Just like Kristin’s,” I’d tell the Next Life Clerk.
I’ve been overthinking everything since I could think. Part of it is my culture; I come from a people who, if they didn’t invent psychoanalysis, certainly perpetrated it on the world.
I’m saving the world one head at a time. Steve Leo’s head was the first. He’s the guy who taught my wrist to bend after six weeks of stall rest (a.k.a. a cast) for a compound horse-inflicted fracture. It turned out Steve was a horseman, in addition to being a physical therapist. One step into his Staunton, Va., office revealed that. He’s got horse statues, horse paintings and horse pictures all over the place.
This road to recovery has two lanes, mine and Katie's. Mine, as you might have read in previous columns, has been a twisty, mountainous route full of switchbacks and delays. Katie's, on the other hand, has been a straight, slow slog across Kansas.
Life keeps getting in the way of my return to riding. And this column.
So I’ve had a little set back in chronicling my return to riding. But at least now I can type with two hands to explain why I’ve been missing in action.
I’m from the North, I’m over 50, and I’m Jewish. So it’s a safe bet that I’m more than a little familiar with therapy. Like Woody Allen, except I’m not as funny, not as rich and not married to my 35-year-younger stepchild.
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