Part 3 of my saga, originally posted in 2012:

Romance:

Let’s talk romance during a trail ride. Snort.

Shall we recap first?

I still haven’t bathed. I still smell of horse, which is supposed to be a western, wholesome odor, and manages to smell of, well, horse. I’m still not able to put my legs together and walk upright without limping, and the ache from hitting the horse’s backbone is still with me. The flies (by the way, freezing conditions don’t affect these suckers. They’re hardy little devils.) are still present, my face is chapped, and my lips are well-bitten (from holding back my screams). The state of other body parts? I haven’t been able to eat for 40 hours. Every time I push fluids, however, I also remember that I will have to find an appropriate bush, and that’s beginning to wear heavily on me.

Notice how I haven’t waxed eloquent about the scenery, the sunrises, the sunsets? I honestly don’t remember seeing anything but the horse’s neck.

The second night of my adventure, Cowboy Bill saunters up to me. He has a matching red band on his forehead, dust on his face and he, too, smells of horse – and chili.

Just how much libido do you think I had at this point?

Um, not much.

“Hi, honey, how are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” I say.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he says, smiling suggestively.

I agree, because I’m always on the lookout for just the right bush.

We walk a little, and he puts his arm around me.

“Just look at that sky,” he says, looking up at the black, cold night. “You can’t see stars like that in San Antonio. Too much light pollution.”

“Unh.” (Which means: I have a bathroom in San Antonio.)

“And smell that air,” he says, closing his eyes and filling his lungs.

“Unh.” (Which means: I smell horse, manure, and that damn coffee, not to mention myself, which isn’t the most wonderful odor at the moment, thanks.)

He bumps hips with me, and I stare at him in shock.

Segue here: I can’t be the only woman who has ever experienced this, but when you’re at your lowest ebb, when you’re almost flat on the ground and you’ve already been knocked out a couple of times, some guy wants to make whoopie. Not only that, but he doesn’t understand that whoopie is the last thing on your mind, after having a hysterectomy, a lobotomy, and maybe performing a vasectomy with kitchen implements.

What I was feeling was tantamount to having your husband tell you how sexy you look five minutes after you’ve given birth. You just stare at him in absolute horror.

“What are you doing?” I ask, taking a step to the side.

“Trying to kiss you.”

Seriously, was he nuts?

Then, I did the one thing that any woman should NOT do when a man is in the whoopie mood. I started to laugh. I was laughing so hard that I didn’t see him leave, but I imagine he stomped off.

I think a coyote howled at that moment. I seriously believe it was a female coyote and she was just giving another female encouragement in an inter-species way.

The next day, I was whisked to the emergency room. Diagnosis? Typhus? Typhoid? I didn’t care. I was broken, please just fix me. (They did, to the tune of almost $1000.00 and two weeks of “fun, fun, fun”.)

I have no shame in stating that my relationship with Cowboy Bill did not outlive the Great Trail Ride Escapade. I only hope that he found himself a real cowgirl. (She can have my boots – they’re still in my closet.)

So, let’s review:

1. I’m not a girly girl. Neither am I a cowgirl. My minimum requirements are running water and a bathroom with a door.

2. Horses are not my friends.

3.  The west was won by really strong people. I could be one of those people if there were no bathrooms, antibiotics, refrigerators stocked with non-dirt embedded food, or coffee made with bacteria-free water in the world. Since there are oodles of the aforementioned, I see no need to reinvent the wheel.

4. I admire those people who feel the need to re-enact the past. I lasted two whole days on the trail ride, and those were two really difficult days. I can only imagine what it would have been like a hundred years ago.

5. Because of my adventures, I laugh like a loon when reading western romance. And writing one? I couldn’t keep a straight face. All those books you read about being on the trail for twelve hours and then refreshing yourself in the creek to engage in mad passionate lovemaking until dawn creeps over yon rugged hills? Ain’t happenin’ in my world, baby.

6. I think I was only introduced by Cowboy Bill as, “This here’s Karen,” but parts of my anatomy might be well known. After a few hours behind a bush,  you just don’t care anymore. I think it’s best that I hide during February, don’t you?