Age or apathy?

I really must do something about my appearance.

At one time or another, we have probably all caught an unexpected reflection of ourselves in a shop window or bathroom mirror after two or more bulbs have burned out in the overhead fixture and thought, "Oh, Cripes! This is a case for Spackle!" My own moment came when, dressed in a crisp t-shirt and my beloved Carhart jeans, Don at the Hayrack mused, "You goin' somewhere special, Pam?" Because, to him, that was the best he'd ever seen me look!

What a far cry from my days in California… being in the entertainment industry and never knowing when an agent might call with a last minute audition, I rarely left the house without being 'camera-ready.' That could take some time, but having been on television sets for years, watching the makeup artists (and they really are artists, believe me!) slather on foundation and eye-shadow in less than ten minutes, I got it down to a quick procedure.

Even going to the barn I was immaculate. For nine years, each morning, my group of dressage buddies would step out of their Jags and Mercedes (I noticed they made a point of leaving at least a car-space between their cars and my '92 Trooper, as if it was riddled with some sort of viral infection) and stride across the stable yard in custom Koenigs and white (yes, white!) Polo shirts, mount their freshly groomed horses, being held by grooms, and ride out to the arena for our lessons. We were in full-training, competing furiously each summer at places that sound exotic now: Del Mar, Show Park, Rancho Santa Fe… we had a great time, worked hard, won good ribbons, and had more than a round or two of martinis with the rest of the riders and trainers each evening.

So what happened?

Insisting on keeping my horses at home is what happened. I tend to be rather "hands-on." Sure, I had kept my horses at home as a youth, but not since. And when you're that age, you don't really notice if you have hay in your hair or that both your palms are black from polishing your boots. Part of me thinks, "Well, who cares? I'm at that age where I'm simply comfortable with myself, dammit!" and then, as I ask the cash register girl at Bi-Lo to wait because I think I have correct change, besides the two pennies, I also pull out of my coat pocket a handful of shavings, a small braiding rubber band, and a rotten apple core, it gets pretty embarrassing.

"Never mind." I say to the girl, just knowing that she can smell the aroma of horse urine rising from the soles of my muck shoes.

"That's O.K." she replies, flatly.

I dress seriously because I ride seriously. I expect my students to do the same. It just seems that no matter how pristinely clean I feel when mounting up my first horse of the day, by around 3 p.m., strangers in town gently approach and ask me if I'd like to know where the local thrift store is located. My hair desperately needs a trim. My favorite baseball cap has one of those awful sweat stains that goes all the way around it. Don't even ask me about my nails.

I really must do something about my appearance – after I clean tack. And sweep the aisle. And pull Valentino's mane…