Trip Equipped

Looking for an exit out of the tunnel of tiredness I order yet another cup of coffee at Costa. The barista sulkily taking my request and I immediately take it personally. I reply clumsily only making it more awkward. It’s possibly our third floundering interaction today but I’m never admitting that to myself. The level of awkward meaning there’s no hope I’m going to be brave enough to ask for the chocolate sugar rush I sorely need, deciding internally he’s gatekeeping me from having a nice day! I’d love to say I almost as quickly let go of the idea of holding a grudge when he prompted me my flight was already boarding although It felt more in a "care in the community" way rather than peacemaking. I mumble my thanks as I spot the coffee dribbling down my sleeve and coat probably only confirming his suspicions. 

Relief does however flood my body on contact with caffeine. Airports can be fun, mostly but only when coffee is involved. My journey to the stables has always been my preparation time. Thinking time, which I’m sure won’t surprise people. Whether the journey involves a quick jump in the car or a trek to the airport this pattern stays the same. Airport runs just prompt a more lofty thinking. Within this thinking is a reminder of the ethereal slightly unreachable goals of perfectionism. I also remind myself what it actually means, while egging my tired old, sore body on for that matter. Usually it’s book time, something nerdy and educational to help constrain the spiral into habitual Irish guilt. If time allows and in this weather with delays it often does, another book but fiction to distract from what I’ve just read (and will reread because surely by now I should know it but don’t). In general every paragraph will get dissected in post mortem style analysis so I can learn it, apply it and pass it on to my clients. My poor clients who are so often overloaded in lessons with every new brain spiral., forever searching for the nugget of information that might help the penny drop for them. 

Interspersing this travel pattern will be moments of cabin bag guesswork. What did I pack, what did I forget this time, always something left behind often to be found later on in the return journey when not needed. Socks! why Isi it always socks for some reason, never enough and never the right ones. Socks to keep me warm, look sensible when I need to be grown up and with just enough quirk to keep people from approaching me in the airport for friendly chats! About this time, I’m restless and worrying about getting to the stables so I pick a book back up even if it’s the same uninviting tome. Some flit of recognition that another chapter on half halts is more welcoming that sitting with either my own thoughts or even worse the thoughts of the screaming child in the row of seats in front. 

Does this reading, this pattern mean my ass hits the saddle more ready? Probably not but at least it makes me feel like effort has been made. I can reassign any blame left to just my odd catholic upbringing. With guilt delegated there might even be time for a little joy. Contentment at how well the big beast is going lately. Resisting the urge to think the socks might be lucky in case I forget them next time, most likely the good training I’m getting. Maybe the books are helping, but either way he is a wonderful horse and I’m excited for the future.