Wah-Ha

Okay. There I was, 10am, 97 degrees and about 8000% humidity, sitting next to Betty Rachley, watching the Cowboy Homecoming parade, thinking of the kind of idiocy that would allow people to dress up and walk slowly on asphalt and waving on the third weekend of August in South Texas.

Hello! South Texas? Are these people mad? Sadistic? Gluttons? Trying to do penance for some horrific sin?

Whatever. There I sat, finding off the bees and thinking how wise I was to not be riding in this one this year. See, every year since 1997, Tesster and I have been in the parade, either with the Bluebonnet Trail Riders or with Hutton Ranch. Every year I sit in that saddle as Tess gasps for breath, and I pull a soaking shirt off my back. There I am, thinking: "Never! I will never do this again. EVER!"
And here I was, relatively comfortable compared to those poor saps on horseback. Yeah, let them youngsters take it from here on out.

. . and then . . .

Then I missed the work, and sweat and glory of it all. I missed waving at the little kids who think Tesster is cool and the ones who followed Hercules, the mini last year, chanting his name. I missed saddling up and untacking. I felt left out. In short, I wanted to play.

Maybe all that stuff about age being just in your head is kinda sort right. Although my body would disagree with impressive volume that I am not 19 anymore, still, I cannot accept the sidelines yet.

The trick is to find a way to balance the two.

Because, after all, how old was John Wayne?