Everyone knows I am adamantly against sentimentality.
And that works both ways. I’m “against” stress, too. I’m “against” pessimism.
But that only works for so long. I’m also against offshore drilling, and you can see how persuasive my silent protesting waves of “against” energy have been with domestic energy policy for the past few decades. Sooner or later, all the emotions and all the problems you try to shove aside will catch up with you. They’ll do it when you’re tired, when you’re overworked, when you’re pushing yourself past your limit. And then it seems like there’s nothing for it besides a tub of Starbucks Mocha Chip, a bottle of red wine, a bath, and maybe a one-person listening party of Achtung Baby.
Oh I’m stressed. Oh I’m worried. Oh I’m even pessimistic.
I mean, I’m moving in three weeks. It’s a hundred degrees and sunny outside. I work late and get up late. I have furniture to relocate and boxes to pack and a disastrous mess of a house and outside I have two yearlings and a retired racehorse who have to be worked. And did I mention the retired racehorse has to be sold? In three weeks?
Bring on the ice cream, the alcohol, the bubbles, the Irishmen playing guitars!
How conventional, though. I have a perfectly good stress reliever outside. Oddly enough, he’s my biggest worry. But he’s also still my espresso shot, my lovely fast Thoroughbred, and as we all know, all we who love the blood-horse, there is no feeling like slipping into a strong, smooth gallop stride, and letting the world go.
And with the perspective of a gallop, I can look at things analytically. To be perfectly honest, I’m not bothered about how much money Final Call brings in. Did I want some money to help with the move? Of course. I have to pay sales prep on the two yearlings and that is not a cheerful prospect anyway. I have to drive an F-150 full of books to New York and that is not going to be cheap. (You wouldn’t expect me to leave my books behind, would you?) Did I want or expect to turn a handsome profit on Final Call? Certainly not. I wanted to make enough to justify the time and effort and sweat that I put into him, which I think is only fair. Not that, I know, fair counts for much. So I drop his price. I mark him reduced, with little asterisks to emphasize. “Seller Moving! Must Sell!” Tragic, I know. I’m reduced to craigslist tactics. But what of it? As long as I get some e-mails, as long as I get some phone calls, as long as his soul mate comes out and her jaw drops (I assume it’s a girl) and she gives him a hug. It can happen. It will happen.
Won’t it? Off the horse, the little worries creep in again. Finding a home for him is on my mind day and night. But while I’m riding him, while we’re galloping, when I press my hands into his neck and he puts his head down and digs into the turf – I can just close my eyes, and feel free.