I went to watch a famous horse guy last Saturday & Sunday. I was going to refer to him as FHG (famous horse guy) but then I thought it sounded too much like fag, which would be politically incorrect and since I'm trying to be more politically correct, I decided against it. Then I thought about it a little more and decided I liked it...and... since he's from Australia, I could actually call him FAG (famous Australian guy). I think it's way more fun to legitimately be able to call him FAG...adds a nice little touch I think...and...fuck political correctness anyway...at least for today.
Anyway, the FAG from Downunder draws really big crowds. As with all these horsey clinicians, the FAG's audience is made up primarily of women. All ages of women who come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. We women l-o-v-e our horses...I would have put a little heart sign, you know "I -heart-my horse...but I was afraid I'd barf all over from the icky sweetness of it all...plus, I don't know how to do it...I acknowledge the fact that I am a Luddite and have learned to embrace it...happily.
The FAG put on a two day clinic designed to gain more followers. He, and every clinician like him, are sort of like Pied Pipers of horse training, leading us down the road playing their little horsey songs while we happily follow along like a bunch of little money spending rats. The FAG makes mucho dinero off women like me...constantly looking for magical ways to make ourselves and horses better. The older we get, the more we spend.
Now, being an old woman, accepting the fact that I'm fat, wrinkled, and have joints that don't want to bend like they used to, I'm always looking for ways to make my life easier. I really don't want to work very hard at much. So with that thought in mind, I bought a kid sized training stick & string...it's a little shorter & lighter...and it's pink...who could object to being struck repeatedly by a pink stick??? Not that the adult size ways 20 lbs or anything, I just wanted to see if it made a difference for my bum shoulder. The jury's still out on that since I haven't used it yet.
Since I've been to these things before, I pretty much knew what to expect from the FAG. The crowd, however, was a different matter entirely. Is there anything more pathetic than a middle aged woman trying to look like a teenager??? I mean, really? There was one woman who was probably in her late 40's or early 50's who was the personification of patheticism (I'm not sure that's a word). I'll call her Polly, as in Polly Pathetic. PP had streaked her long gray hair and had it piled on her head, and was squeezed into a skin tight tank top that was made of some kind of sweater fabric in a shade that looked like a dirty white t shirt badly in need of bleach. Said top was then tucked into skin tight destroyed jeans that were then tucked into some type of shaggy llama looking knee high off white boots. Imagine Buckingham Palace guard hats in off white with longer flowing fur...that's what the boots looked like. And...she had bedazzled her jeans...heavily? Yes, rhinestones galore adorned her mile wide ass as she pranced around outside the arena. (Okay...it wasn't really a mile wide, but it was too wide to be bejeweled in such a manner...)
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for women doing whatever they can to feel better about themselves...as long as they don't turn into PP in the process. If you have rolls of fat and crepey cleavage, you shouldn't be showing it off in a three sizes too small tank top. IT DOESN'T LOOK GOOD TO ANYONE. The only person who's gonna find that attractive is the ninety year old blind guy sittin' in a wheelchair at the old folks home with drool running off his chin.
As is usually the case at large events, bathroom time is at a premium. During breaks, lunch, etc., women rush to use the bathrooms. The older you get, the smaller your bladder gets. Doesn't seem fair. There's never enough women's bathrooms to go around...lines are a mile long. At this particular event, there were a line of portable bathrooms. I'm always reluctant to use these. Partly because you can see the previous users poop. It seems wrong to see someone else's poop. I feel like I'm being so intrusive. The main reason is I'm always afraid something is going to reach up and grab my butt. I know how truly stoopid this is but I can't help it. I have no valid reason to think this. No one has ever tried to grab me through the hole of a port a potty before...I obviously have mental issues I should deal with.
In my search for the perfect bathroom, I found a little building near the parking lot that had two separate bathrooms...one for the boys, the other for the girls. There was still a line, but it wasn't as long as the other places. After all the men were done, the women standing in line started using the mens bathroom. Never in my life have I intentionally gone into a public mens bathroom...sure, I've stumbled into them in a drunken stupor occasionally, but I've never actually got to the point where my pants were down. Usually the urinal is a dead giveaway...in case you ever find yourself in this predicament.
So, since I wasn't the least bit intoxicated, I decided to wait for the women's bathroom. Here I am standing in line with a bunch of strangers, listening to them gab. Finally it's almost my turn. Only one woman in front of me. When the current user exits she tells me & the woman in front of me that there are two stalls...score!!! So in I walk with the lady in front of me. After locking the door behind me, I turn around and see that there are, in fact, two stalls...if you can call them that. Rather there were two toilets sitting in the room with a partial divider separating them and NO DOORS. Now, I don't know what to do. Is it going to be weird if I turn & run out or more weird to sit there and pee looking into the face of a complete stranger? The stranger in the bathroom with me apparently thinks nothing of the lack of privacy...I, on the other hand, am mortified. However, since the pressure in my bladder was becoming unbearable, I stayed. Yes, I pulled down my big girl pants (literally, these are big girl pants) and sat twelve inches from a complete stranger and chatted with her while we both peed. The whole time I'm chatting with her, all I can think is...thank God I didn't have to poop. It's the stoopidist thing.