Rodeo Reflections

I should preface this entry with a disclaimer:
I am a coward. I am genuinely and deeply afraid of any animal larger than a labrador. (I am also deeply and passionately terrified by anything closely resembling a rodent--squirrels and chipmunks included--but this confession does not apply to this post.)
I believe horses are agents of death and are secretly plotting to turn against the humans who have bound them for ages. I appreciate that they are beautiful and majestic animals, but these virtues are overshadowed by their alarming speed, strength, and incredibly pointy hooves.
I fear them. I stand in frozen panic when I find myself in their presence.

I had no business going to a rodeo and am, therefore, unable to objectively reflect upon my experiences there.

BUT COME ON!!!!!!!! Seriously??? Seriously?? How far is this from those gladiator battles in ancient Rome or wherever? Except that the cowboy volunteered to be in there....I am absolutely sure that I have paid $10.00 to watch a man's skull be shattered in my presence. I am FAR too emotionally unstable to have been required to sit through that 3 hour stress test. To be fair, my husband was also traumatized by my attendance and the social dignity it cost him.

It appears I have some sort of Tourette's syndrome triggered by rodeo-related violence. Open the chute and watch me go. I begin shrieking like a banshee, "GET OFF! GET OFF!" and then madly slapping the back of my spectating husband, as if this cowboy's bloody death via stomping is Justin's personal responsibility. Although he REPEATEDLY encouraged me to shut my eyes until the 8 second buzzer sounded, I felt a responsibility to serve as personal witness to the end of each contestant. Half way through the night my nerves were so shot even barrel racing threatened to incite hyperventilation, so I spent the rest of the evening at the refreshment stand. (I say "at the refreshment stand" because I did not consume products SOLD by the refreshment stand during my tenure there. How you can stand mere feet from large pens of bulls and their related aroma and munch upon cheeseburgers and hot dogs is far beyond me. This rodeo culture has been highly overlooked by modern day anthropology).

I did manage to lure a handsome cowboy over as I waited for the merciful end of Kansas' Biggest Rodeo. His name was Jack and the top of his stetson hit me about mid-thigh. He told me he liked my shiny belt and would I open his Coke for him. So I took care of 3-year-old Jack's beverage requests and helped his tiny pal, Ellie, out with her soda, too. What can I say? They're my demographic. Like moths to a flame, they know who to come to...

Of course there's always the possibility that their mothers sent them to cheer up the grown woman shaking from a nervous fit under the next picnic table, but I like to think it was my charisma that drew them over...

The good news is the human survival rate was 100% (minus some wrists and an ankle) and I overheard Justin say, "We can go ahead and buy reserved seats next year. We can use the money we save from buying one less ticket..." so I'm apparently excused from any future Wrangler-related torture events.