my life as a man

this week’s play-at-home blogger idol prompt was:  “write about a day in the life of you… you have to write about your day as if you were the opposite sex.”  piece of cake.  or beefcake.  whatever.


the weak sunrise stirs me from yet another bizarre dream cycle. i swear my wife’s hormonal swings were hitting me square in the testicles all night… that, or the full moon is screwing with my normal dead-to-the-world, snoring-like-a-freight-train, coma-like slumber.  [*author’s note: i could throw in the gratuitous ball-scratching, early morning wood, yada yada yada, but i’m pretty sure that’s implied in every piece of literature, in every film, in every place, in every time where a man wakes up. too cliche, even for me.]  it takes me a few minutes to get the old body in gear, throw on (well, not really “throw on” so much as “ease into”) my sweats, stumble downstairs trying to not step on a dog or two, make coffee (can someone please make a coffee grinder with a muffler on it? please?! it’s SO LOUD!). as that brews, i brace the cool morning air and head to the barn where six hungry hippos, i mean horses, await not-so-patiently. i swing buckets over fences, let the old-timers in their stalls from their night in the pasture, and then send the dog up the driveway for the newspaper. the coffee’s ready by the time i get back in, and i settle down on the couch with a cup and my laptop. and before i gotdamn know it, it’s 10am. what.the.hell?

i don’t know how it happens… i get sucked into the black hole of the innerneck. email, fbook, links from fbook, refill my coffee, links from links, words with friends, refill my coffee, have a little toast with my butter… which reminds me, i should have my cholesterol checked. and my prostate. “bend over and show me,” says dr. assman.

time to shovel shit. six horses equals about six hundred pounds of shit. no shit. at least my arms don’t look like old man arms. my back feels like an old man back, though. an hour later, and i’m ready to ride. except i’m hungry for lunch now. shoveling shit works up an appetite. you’d think it would spoil one…

i eat lunch in front of the laptop, of course. because i’m sad and pathetic. actually, i’m not sad at all. just need to look at something while i eat. the dogs are tired of my stares. especially since i don’t share my lunch with them.

time to saddle up. there are approximately zero times that preparing a horse to ride does not immediately turn me into “pigpen” from “peanuts.” i’ve tried standing upwind, hosing instead of brushing (in hot weather… i’m not an asshole), vacuuming (really… with a horse vacuum. yes they make those and yes they cost more than a dyson), but i still end up covered in dust, hair, horse buggers, and fly spray. it gets in my hair, up my nose, down my shirt, in my socks. i have learned to live with the itch/tickle of horse hair in my briefs.

after riding three and doing groundwork with the little guy (who is not little at all – he’s actually taller than the other five. but he’s just two years old, and i was there when he was just two hours old and so he will always be the “little guy” to me), it’s time for dinner (theirs), washing the top layer of dirt off (me), and a glass of wine (or two). oh, and dinner for me and the ever lovin’.


the little guy, making himself even bigger by standing on the curb.

*author’s note… while writing this, trying to “think like a man,” i have come to the realization once again that i am such a dude. i’m more of a dude than some dudes i know. though i’d be a gay dude, technically, because i do like dudes. also, my day-to-day life is pretty much a big snoozefest, but i love it. horse buggers and all.