Last night, I left work on time solely due to my bargain with the devil of bringing my laptop home and planning on about another few hours of work later that evening.
It was a beautiful day. I didn’t hit any traffic. (Such as it exists in Vermont.) I got to the barn right when I wanted to. Tristan was looking great. I got out my tack, and put together my old figure 8 bridle for an experiment.
I had a good riding plan: I put his old kimberwicke in the figure 8 to see if we could nip the bolting and jackassery in the bud, and settle down to actually schooling outside. If – as past experience indicated – he hit the curb chain once or twice and then settled down, then I had a conditioning ride planned with some long canters. I wanted to get some of the fuss out of him before trying an actual dressage ride in the big outdoor the next day.
I buckled the last strap of the figure 8 and stepped back to take a picture of his new bitting getup, because blogging.
Then I saw that I had missed three calls from my husband. I called him back.
He was stuck in non-moving traffic because of an accident on the main road of the city he worked in. Even if he got on the highway literally that moment, he was still 45 minutes away from home.
I had dropped the dog off at daycare that morning so she could get some exercise and socialization on a beautiful day.
He called at 5:30. Daycare closed at 6:00.
I hung up and stood there for such a long moment, just staring at Tristan’s face, at the bridle I had just finished putting on him. I had to focus on breathing deeply. I could feel tears stinging, but I fought them. It was one of those moments of perfect, exquisite misery, when there is only one thing you can do but every fiber of your being is screaming that you don’t want to.
I took the bridle off. I took the saddle off. I put my tack away. I put Tristan’s sheet back on. I fed him his grain. I closed the barn door. I picked my dog up from daycare, and I went home.
I opened up my laptop, and I worked until 9pm.
I am so tired.