Born to Ride: An Open Letter to the Superbored Teen Texting From Her Horse
Teenage girl, who are you texting? There’s no right answer to this question unless it is your horse and your message reads, “Thanks so much for carting me around.”
Dear teenage girl who is texting from her horse:
I’m down here on the ground, a mere mortal in flip-flops, walking my dog on a sunny Los Angeles afternoon. So please feel free to ignore me, seeing as there’s an obvious hierarchy that’s playing out. You’re atop your horse, typing away on your iPhone 5C. I am a couple feet below you (six hands in horse talk), pulling my dog’s face away from a skunk carcass on the trail. I own an iPhone 4S, for the record, and can’t update the operating system because I cheaped out and didn’t buy a phone with enough storage to accommodate both it and all the Peter Gabriel albums out there.
Listen, you superbored teenage girl. There’s no point in lying: I’m impressed. First off, you own a gigantic brown horse. You and your steed have nicer hair than me. These days, I’m “working from home,” which means I don’t have to wash my hair as much, or at all. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a correlation between my hygiene habits and the fact that I have no horse or iPhone 5C, but dwelling on that too much feels like chicken and egg stuff, you know? Maybe you don’t know about the chicken and egg. Maybe you don’t know anything about causality dilemmas because your parents feed you chickens and eggs at the same time, in a very special salad I’ve never heard of because I have no savings account.
I’d also like to mention your jodhpurs. They are beautiful and beige and possibly custom-made. When you get a bit older, you’ll understand that the ability to leap into a pair of horse pants without a second thought and then leap onto your actual horse is a gift. That is a gift that has been proffered to you by the universe and your parents’ investment portfolios. Most of us have to make do with the following pants: ugly jeans, humiliating khakis, soul-crusher sweats and one pair of business slacks for when we have to beg for jobs. The larger point here is that you should be relieved that on a Friday afternoon your main occupation is to climb into a shiny Range Rover and drive to the stables where a horse is waiting for you to brush it and whisper your secrets in its ear.
Teenage girl, who are you texting? There’s no right answer to this question unless it is your horse and your message reads, “Thanks so much for carting me around.” I assume it’s not. I assume you are texting someone named Garfield or Flint or maybe Blane. Therefore:
Dear horse that is carrying the teenage girl who is texting:
You are a magnificent beast. In the past, you were the sole mode of transportation for kings and queens and prototypes for the failed actors who end up at Medieval Times Dinner & Tournament. Now you are walking along a sludgy urban river and are being bossed around by a person who doesn’t know how to operate a coffee machine. You can do better than this! Come live in my garage. I promise to take great care of your hair-and maybe even mine.