Dodging Bullets

One of my ex-fiances introduced me to the term "dodging a bullet" following a conversation that could have, but didn't, "go south," another term to which he introduced me. The biggest bullet we dodged was staying together, since our relationship was, well, I'll say tempestuous, although it's a severe understatement.

But the bullet I am talking about today is that of simply being young. I walked in on one of my young co-workers recently and discovered him having an apparently very serious telephone conversation. I backed out. When he had to come ask me a question later on, I thought his eyes looked a tad red around the rims.

I remember those days of angst, the days of the sturm-und-drang roller-coaster existence. And I don't miss them one little titchy, snoz-boggling bit.

When I think about the stupid boys and men who drove me to crying in my beer, even when I was too young to drink beer, I just want to hurl. I want to conjure up myself at a tenderer age and shake myself by the shoulders. "Buck up!" I want to shout. "They're jerks!"

But it's too late now. Somehow, I managed to survive them all. That's not to say there aren't scars, and embarrassing memories that I could never in a million years put into print for public consumption. But at least I don't have to worry about creating MORE scars and mortifying memories.

So to all the young people who are trying to navigate the roiling waters of relationships, I advise you to be of good cheer. If I can make it, maybe you can too. It gets better. It gets easier. Be strong, and try not to be needy. Life is more fun that way.

Bob's Your Uncle

I had a long talk with my horse today.

He stood in front of me, not moving a muscle, as I'd commanded him to do. I was sitting on the three-step mounting block (next stop, a crane).

I was dejected. "What the hell good are you?" I said. My voice was soft. I wasn't yelling. I felt dejected. "You have heaves. You can't pull a cart. I'm afraid you'll buck me off. You're spooky on trails. I can't give pony rides on you." The list went on. He actually had the grace to look sad.

"What am I going to do with you?" I wondered. "You aren't even a good companion horse!"

The sun felt really good. Some bug pestered Sox in the the mild spring air. I sat there for about 20 minutes, looking at Sox and remembering the other horses we had to get rid of for their own good, because Sox was mean to them. I miss those other horses. They were good, useful horses. Well, two of them were.

Sox seemed to sense my despair. Some people say horses are telepathic. I do hope this is the case. I hope Sox is even now chewing on my words out in the pasture. I hope he comes to the conclusion that he's either got to become a kinder, gentler horse, or find himself a slab on a platter 3000 miles away with a Japanese dad sharpening a knife over him.