Sometimes “normal” people don’t get me. It’s because I’m a crazy horse person, a special breed. So, I’ve created this disclaimer. Here’s what you can expect if you want to be friends (by choice) or if you’re related or married to me (thus your options are limited). 

If you think I’m unstable because one day I loveeee the horses, and the next I’m cursing about how they’re draining my life’s blood, you’re right. I’m highly unstable. 

I’m going to show up smelly, hay-strewn and late to your kid’s first birthday party, my own anniversary celebration, and other important life events. If you’re lucky, I’ll reek of perfume and dry shampoo to mask the stink.

I’m sorry to miss out on your barbecues and bounce houses because we’re horse showing that day. And, of course, the horse show is more important. Duh. 

My house is trashed. Call yourself lucky if you don’t trip over a paddock boot and sprain your ankle. But my barn aisle is meticulous. It’s impossible to find anything in the chaos I call home. Where the heck is the can opener or a matching pair of socks?  But down at the barn, my bridles are hung in neat figure-8s, saddle pads carefully stacked and bit collection stashed in the appropriate container. Full cheek with a twist? I got ya!  

The paint is peeling, the windows are rotting, and the AC is busted in our bedrooms. But I have exciting news: I just bought a horse trailer! Prioritizing at its finest. 

I can’t meet you for a latte because I’m waiting for the farrier. Or I’m cramming a ride into my already crazy day before the rain. Oh, the vet’s running behind. Bring the caffeine to me, and now we’re talking!

I’m too tired for girl’s nights, so I understand if you quit asking. My version of an epic night is crawling my achy body into bed, fuzzy jammies, a heating pad and (yay) falling asleep early. But I’ll drive three hours at a moment’s notice to try a pony for sale and stop for a Starbucks on the way, because that’s my version of a spontaneous road trip! Whoopie! 

I’m not up-to-date on the latest fashion trends because I’m only sporting leggings or breeches. On frigid days, I wear both at the same time along with three pairs of wool socks. I swear I have designated barn shoes and regular people shoes, but somehow every regular-people shoe becomes a barn shoe. All my footwear is muddy and smelly, and that’s just how it’s going to be. Radical acceptance at its finest. 

You bought Golden Goose sneakers? Why would you drop that much money on dirty-looking sneaks? You paid $200 for a hydro facial to strip your pores when you could just take a steamy shower? I burn through $265 for my horse’s shoes every seven weeks. I may be low-key judgy.

Texts? I’m not purposely ignoring them. I’m just preoccupied scrolling through horses for sale. I can’t handle the stress of the horses I have, but I absolutely need to buy another one—or ten. If you tell my husband, you’re dead to me.

Yep, I’ll awake at the crack of dawn to horse show even though showing makes me so nervous I’m on the verge of barfing. I’ll pay a small fortune to win (maybe) generic ribbons, and if I’m reallllly lucky, a saddle pad (even though I already own 100 of them). I’ll swear I’m totally over showing. Then I’ll have amnesia and send in my entries for the next one. 

Because apparently I like to pay to have a bunch of people watch me canter around a ring as I do my best to avoid a panic attack. Then one special stranger determines how well I ride and ranks me. Everyone will know what that elite stranger thinks about my riding! It’s a super fun time, and always great for a self-esteem boost! 

I also pay a trainer to criticize me. I attempt to ride better and get frustrated.  I then pay for the trainer to point out my flaws all over again. I also pay the trainer to get on my horse and do everything effortlessly, as I question my life choices. It’s a very healthy cycle! 

I’m obsessed with what grain to choose, which supplements to feed and obtaining quality hay to keep my horses looking dreamy, but I’m popping nuggets and soggy fries in the microwave for my kids. Don’t worry; the nuggets are organic. 

I can remember all the names of the lesson horses I rode when I was a kid: Dippy, Lancer, Fred, Pilaf, Roquefort, China Girl. Sadly, I can’t remember today’s date. When I think about my first horse too hard, I cry like a baby because I miss him so much. I covet his name plate and halter, but I can’t locate my kids’ baby teeth or newborn blankets. 

How dare you suggest I go to Urgent Care unless I’m bleeding profusely or hacking up a lung, but if one of my horse babies gets an ugly cut, I’m on the phone with the vet. Pronto. 

My fondest memories are formed at the barn. My happy place isn’t on a massage table or in front of a bottomless mimosa, it’s watching my horses grazing in the field. Seeing them munch grass always puts me in a good mood. It never gets old.

I’m a crazy horseperson, and I own it. There are others with this affliction. They get me and are immune to the smell. I hope you can come to understand me too. It may be difficult for you to relate when you don’t comprehend why I’m obsessing over rain rot, an abscess, or my sticky lead changes, but if you’re willing to listen—even if you think martingale is a species of bird—I’ll keep you around. 

Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 3 to 14. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm, where her horse-crazy girls play with their small pony, Cupcake, and her son and husband play with the tractor.