Last Friday, as the East Coast was deluged, the barn lost electricity. Most farms in this area are not on the town water lines; instead, they pump water from wells, and, significantly, use electricity to pump water. So, not only did the barn lose electricity, we also lost plumbing.
To the rest of the world, this is a minor inconvenience, but to horse people, this loss is more intense. The new barn leaves horses 10 gallons of water to last them overnight (2 5-gallon buckets); multiply by 10 horses, and that's 100 gallons of water that must be found somehow. Which is how I found myself, dripping wet, collecting rainwater for Nicole, and in the midst of this all-too-appropriate setting, through the simple conversations that open the golden gates to womens' psyche, I got to know my new barn mates and trainer better.
The horse world truly is a microcosm of the world at large, except the emotions of the world become more operatic and concentrated within the equine milieu. In other words, the intrigues and happenings in the horse world are the stuff that the rest of the world gets to watch on “COPS;” horse people, however, experience these extremes first-hand, founding a general status quo of Jerry Springer proportions. This is why instead of hearing: “I love my mare,” you hear horse people utter: “oh my God in Heaven, I love my mare.” See the difference in emotional weight given to the same sentiment?
Not only is this because the horse world is gravid with estrogen, but is, more precisely, due to the female population's persistent need to over-analyze everything. When women gather in large numbers, they are overwrought by the adolescent desire for validation; from thus is born Agamemnon for the horsey set.
In all my business dealings, in my interactions with the horse world, and with my social circles, I've found this to be a uniquely female experience. And like army buddies that survive wars together, it's during these times that I learn the lowdown and all I didn't want to know about the various players in my social circle.
While the rest of the world sees a rainstorm as the opportunity to lay off the yard work, the horse population deems it auspicious to strut and fret in their production of “Analyze Your Trainer.” Having partaken in this soap opera many times in the past, I am familiar with the proceedings, and simply declaring “It was Professor Plum in the library with a kitchen knife!” won't get you very far. Once “Analyze Your Trainer” starts, you have to finish it, however much you pray for it to be over.
The central scene of “Analyze Your Trainer” involves women who expect personal validation from their trainers. If they don't receive it, they have to analyze why, convinced subconsciously that their trainer's really their spouse, parent, or preacher in disguise, and that they are owed some level of undue attention. And the poor trainer is left holding emotional baggage of the feminine kind.
As this fiery production wages on, it hits its zenith in a fine melodramatic aria: the invalidation of the trainer, their credentials, their goals, and their lives. It’s here, dear reader, that the rubber hits the road, and as passion overrides emotional boundaries, I learn more than I ever wished.
And I’m left wondering “who cares?”
