I do know better, but sometimes life trumps intentions.
I met a group of fellow female [that can’t be right, technically…] writers and had, oh, one more glass of wine than was strictly necessary.
And then I met up with some friends in town, and before I knew it, I was in Burger King at 1.30am… or 2… and anyway, home by 3… or so.
And still I went out to the yard.
Now, I have done worse. Oh, man. The first time I rode hungover I was thoroughly polluted, and it was only through the good graces of Argo and my beginner-ness that I survived.
The stakes are higher now, and the lower arena muddier, and when Barbara told us to take up our stirrups, I thought I was going to cry.
Rebel knew, of course, and made it his life’s work to drop the bit and jiggle his bum for forty five minutes straight. I didn’t fall off, but I didn’t do my best either. Which I wasn’t expecting to do, as my primary goal was to stay free of wet sand and go home.
Was it a waste of time? Did I interfere with Rebel’s well being? It was real posture-and-balance lesson, so there wasn’t a great sweat broken. And it more of a fatigue hangover than through excess of drink.
So, was it? All I know is that I felt rather worse by the time I got home, than I had counted on, and… well, I’ll say it won’t happen again, but don’t quote me on that…