I’d like to start things off by thanking everyone for their patience. This entry comes to you ridiculously late, courtesy of writer’s block that a painstaking self-analysis has attributed to the following three things:

1. I am a recent university graduate. I just blew that particular popsicle stand in May, and as such, feel as though I now deserve to sit on my hinter regions, eating chips. In fact, I’ve been feeling rather resentful towards any endeavor that requires me to use my brain at all, and as such, the organ in question seems to have atrophied somewhat. Words, which have always been my friends, are suddenly foreign and clumsy to me. 2. I have recently made the transition from largely normal, functional human being to socially retarded gaming nerd. I’ve always liked video games but since coming across one that truly captures my imagination not long ago, this fondness has exploded into an unhealthy addiction. I regret to inform you that work on this article, along with a number of other important obligations of mine, has occasionally been shunted aside so that I could go and incinerate my brain cells by killing orcs with other likeminded individuals. 3. At the shows at which I’ve competed over the course of the last few weeks, I have experienced the entire gamut of possible results. I got to enjoy walking out of the competitive arena with a glossy red ribbon. However, I also got to revel in the pity applause I received upon being launched headfirst through oxers and verticals by my traitorous steed, whom I then had to pursue all over said competitive arena. Every time I felt up enough about my performance to write about it, something would happen to bring me down. I would then have to console myself by going off and killing orcs. You know how it is. Excuses aside, it has been an interesting series of competitions at Spruce Meadows. So interesting, in fact, that to write about them in chronological order would be impossible (or okay, more difficult than anything my inherent laziness allows me to tackle). Instead, over the course of the next few entries, I will share with you the important lesson each of these shows has taught me, starting with… The National, June 9-13: “If you arrive late, you may very well fall on your head.” It is Thursday, June 10, the morning of the Royal and Sunalliance Level 1 Junior/Amateur Jumper. At 6:15, all over Calgary, alarm clocks are going off, and riders in this class are getting up to make their way to the show grounds. I, however, am in Paris, saying, “Yes, Owen Wilson. As a matter of fact, I WILL marry you and make you the happiest man in the whole world.” At about 6:45, Owen and I are rudely interrupted by my panicked mom, who rushes into my room, rips the covers off my bed, and reveals that not only am I merely dreaming, I am also ridiculously behind schedule. At 7:15, as I am hurtling to the show in my car, violating every traffic rule in existence, my friend Laura and barn employee Super Andrea are wondering where the heck I am. At 7:30, while I am not so much walking my course as I am power-walking down each line, then sprinting to the next one, Super Andrea decides to do damage control and starts tacking up my horse, who rewards her efforts by using his rear end to vindictively fling her box of doughnuts into the dirt. I jog into the show barn, prepared to caulk and tack up in the whopping ten minutes I have left to do so, only to find that…I don’t really need to. Cesi is already standing in the aisle, fully dressed. As though the Doughnut Incident has not caused poor Super Andrea enough pain and suffering for one day, she then has to repeatedly endure the heartfelt renditions of “Wind Beneath My Wings” that I determinedly deliver each time I see her. I make it to the warm-up ring in plenty of time and am able to enjoy a leisurely prep session with Cesi before going into the ring, thinking, “God, I feel ready.” Unfortunately, as usual, I don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, because the first thing I do is ask Cesi to leave the ground from The Longest Distance of All Time. Despite physically recoiling in a manner that suggests he is thinking, “Whatinthewhatnow,” he disobeys his better judgment and jumps anyway, crashing dramatically through the fence in a style reminiscent of Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. This scares the absolute bejesus out of him. However, perhaps because it was not MY legs that were violently smashed into jump poles, I feel just fine, thanks, and at the next fence, ask Cesi to leave from the same distance. This time, his answer is a firm, “Screw you,” evident in the last-minute stop and whirl he does instead of taking off. Nevertheless, in an expression of touching faith, I fling myself halfway up his neck and am projectiled through the vertical headfirst. Boys and girls, I think that the moral of this story is fairly obvious: If Owen Wilson asks you to marry him, you are probably dreaming.

I was born in Bangkok, Thailand, and since my arrival on the planet, have spent most of my 25 years being shunted to cities all over the world, thanks to the international traipsings of my civil engineer dad. For the time being, I’ve settled down in Calgary, AB, where I’m studying psychology and trying to come to terms with the fact that the temperature has been known to drop to –40 degrees Celsius. I’ve been riding for 10 years and have competed up to the 4’3” level on the infamous Caiman Bleu, a Selle Francais gelding who is no longer mine but will always be the love of my life. At the moment, I own a 7-year-old Rheinland gelding named C’est Si Bon, who induces in me alternating fits of fulfillment at his progress and suicidal depressions at his regressions. We’ve competed up to the 4’ level, although not consistently, and I hope that this will be the year that changes.