So, toward the end of last week I was viewing the approach of Saturday's Holston Pony Club Fun Show with ridiculous trepidation. Ridiculous because I've been in charge of this thing for most of the past decade, and because we've always managed to pull it off, and because if you've got the ribbons, judge, concessions, trail class, and Lisa Baker (who owns the farm, Journey's End, where we run the show, and builds the jump courses, etc.) all sorted out, you can't really go wrong, and I had all those things. But still, on Friday, I was experiencing what I recognized as wholly misplaced angst. Also it took me a deplorably long time to fill out the judge's sheets, and I still filled them out wrong, and judge's sheets are not exactly rocket science, especially when you've been filling them out for most of the past 10 years.
But I fretted about the show on Friday, and I also fretted about the enormous amount of paperwork I had to do for Bristol Faith in Action's board meeting today, and I fretted about renewing the pony club's paperwork, which is lengthy but again, not exactly rocket science. Usually my bursts of anxiety are over stuff worth being anxious about. Friday made no sense to me. There you are.
Saturday morning, ditto. Though most of the show stuff was already at Lisa's, I still fretted. My daughter got up slowly and my horse let herself out of the barn, wandering down the pasture in the dark, and I hadn't cleaned my tack and clearly all was about to go wrong. My daughter suggested I take my plastic dinosaur out of my pocket and quit taking myself so seriously.
So, she was right. The show went off beautifully, helped by the camaraderie of our little club. The pony clubbers were awesome, the parents were awesome, and my darling husband stepped in as announcer and was fabulous. All went well.
I went home and wondered what all the anxiety had been about.
I woke with a horrible cough and a head full of mucus.
Oh.
My daughter woke with that plus a sore thoat and a feeling of malaise. I felt fine, so I went on to church with my husband, came home, made a pot of soup and an apple crisp, fell asleep on the couch, and woke 3 hours later feeling like I'd been pummeled with sticks.
I was sick. It takes me a long time, sometimes, to figure that out. I spent the rest of Sunday and all day yesterday feeling perfectly miserable. I fretted about the enormous amount of paperwork I had to do for today's board meeting, but did not get off the couch to do it. I kind of vaguely wanted to make my daughter (who was feeling better, but on her final day of fall break) watch Downton Abbey with me, but I could never muster the energy to wrest her away from The Fault In Our Stars, a novel her best friend had assigned her for Fall Break Reading, which she was weeping over copiously while telling me that I had to. Read it. Immediately. (Except she took our copy off to school with her today, along with The Raven Boys, which she's assigning to her best friend.) So I did nothing. My husband provided food. My daughter took care of the animals.
Today I'm at about 88%. Much better than Friday, even. I woke and dashed off the board meeting paperwork with time enough to write this blogpost, because when I'm not sick, it really isn't that big of a deal. Just like the horse show. But hey, I survived the show anyhow.
But I fretted about the show on Friday, and I also fretted about the enormous amount of paperwork I had to do for Bristol Faith in Action's board meeting today, and I fretted about renewing the pony club's paperwork, which is lengthy but again, not exactly rocket science. Usually my bursts of anxiety are over stuff worth being anxious about. Friday made no sense to me. There you are.
Saturday morning, ditto. Though most of the show stuff was already at Lisa's, I still fretted. My daughter got up slowly and my horse let herself out of the barn, wandering down the pasture in the dark, and I hadn't cleaned my tack and clearly all was about to go wrong. My daughter suggested I take my plastic dinosaur out of my pocket and quit taking myself so seriously.
So, she was right. The show went off beautifully, helped by the camaraderie of our little club. The pony clubbers were awesome, the parents were awesome, and my darling husband stepped in as announcer and was fabulous. All went well.
I went home and wondered what all the anxiety had been about.
I woke with a horrible cough and a head full of mucus.
Oh.
My daughter woke with that plus a sore thoat and a feeling of malaise. I felt fine, so I went on to church with my husband, came home, made a pot of soup and an apple crisp, fell asleep on the couch, and woke 3 hours later feeling like I'd been pummeled with sticks.
I was sick. It takes me a long time, sometimes, to figure that out. I spent the rest of Sunday and all day yesterday feeling perfectly miserable. I fretted about the enormous amount of paperwork I had to do for today's board meeting, but did not get off the couch to do it. I kind of vaguely wanted to make my daughter (who was feeling better, but on her final day of fall break) watch Downton Abbey with me, but I could never muster the energy to wrest her away from The Fault In Our Stars, a novel her best friend had assigned her for Fall Break Reading, which she was weeping over copiously while telling me that I had to. Read it. Immediately. (Except she took our copy off to school with her today, along with The Raven Boys, which she's assigning to her best friend.) So I did nothing. My husband provided food. My daughter took care of the animals.
Today I'm at about 88%. Much better than Friday, even. I woke and dashed off the board meeting paperwork with time enough to write this blogpost, because when I'm not sick, it really isn't that big of a deal. Just like the horse show. But hey, I survived the show anyhow.
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