Which is definitely the case concerning my childhood dream of
riding marrying a cowboy. I grew up on a hobby farm in Michigan, and everyday I dreamed of how my grown up life out West with my cowboy would be...lots of horseback rides at sunset, moonlight serenades, me stealing his cowboy hat, him running after me, us tickling and wrestling on the lawn. I even made one of my high school sweeties wear a cowboy hat in his senior pictures - he had never ridden a horse, but I assured him that that was a minor detail and owning a hat was the first step on the long road to cowboy-hood. Sucker.
I dreamed of Utah as this mystical, magical place where there would be a bounty of cowboys. Hot Mormon cowboys. Hot Mormon cowboys that would never tire of me. I rode horses religiously to impress my future cowboy suitors, memorized every Garth Brooks song, and even went as far as buying a pair of Wranglers - which were so sickly tight that I couldn't eat more than a carrot at a sitting, and made my ass look like a house.
And then I moved to Utah. And just like that my lifelong dream was over. Literally, in about a week, I had forgotten cowboys all together and had moved on to mountain bikers and skiers. My wranglers and cowboy boots went to the back of my closet (where they still reside), and the only horses I've seen since have been at a distance.
I usually look back on this adolescent fantasy with disgust and disdain - until I went to the Oakley Rodeo, that is, when I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was onto something...
What do y'all think?