Whew, long time no see!
So I just realized I haven't posted to my journal at all this year. I've commented on a lot of friends' / comm posts and read a ton of fic, but with trying to finish 23 units so I could graduate and transfer, I haven't had time to do anything that required excessive typing if I wasn't getting graded on it. Um, sorry to the few of you might have actually missed my rambling?
Anyway, aside from school eating all my time, RL has been kind of crazy lately too, mostly involving my romantic life (or lack thereof). This little piece, in a way, is a result of the tangled mess of whatever-the-hell it is I've been going through with Anthony (because we've started some sort of twisted creative writing/penpal project); I really want to hate the guy, but he's like coke in that I know he's nothing but bad news and yet I keep seeking out whatever little bit of a thrill he'll give me. That's a story for another day though, I think. How am I writing when all I want to do over summer is absolutely nothing?? I make no sense #derp
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It feels like I’ve got a second skin, hot and uncomfortable, as sweat sticks thin cotton to my back and shoulders. Unrelenting corduroy fights the gallant efforts of the cooler to my left, and another bead of moisture winds its way down my temple. I would like to contribute my discomfort to the tension weighting the air, but I’m pretty sure it’s the hundred-plus weather we’ve been dealing with and not the apprehension that the next few minutes could make or break my hopes.
My shoulder, not used to the odd angle, has started to go numb, so as the serious-faced man paces away across the ring I take a moment to prop my elbow on my hip. I can tell the heat is taking as much of a toll on Ice as it is on me, judging by the way his massive head keeps drooping, tugging at the lead in my hand. I hoist the chain back up, earning me a baleful look from large chocolate eyes and a tingle from my nearly-asleep left shoulder. Glancing around the arena, I’m relieved to find our judge still questioning my fellow showmen, and get a nod of understanding from Kyle when I mime dying from the heat.
Soon enough we’re all moving again, a bizarre carousel of blue jackets and gleaming fur, scuffing trenches into sawdust with boots and hooves. I’ve been here enough times to know the drill-line up, circle, reverse, shuffle places, repeat. Heart hammering out a staccato beat, I force myself to move fluidly, in sync with the fourteen hundred pounds of muscle moving beside me, going where directed by the man watching us as though we are auditioning for some kind of barnyard ballet. Finally allowed to stop our monotonous circling, I hurriedly tweak Ice’s near-perfect posture, grateful as I watch the others scramble to do the same that I had practiced more than a few weeks. I smirk, ego telling me I deserve to beat these kids who are only in it for the money.
At last our stern-faced judge makes his selection, lining us up from the far end of the show ring. I give a silent “hell yeah” at the halfway point, pleased that I have yet to be called and smug at some of the names placed below me. I’m in the top three, though I have a feeling politics means I won’t beat the well-known show jock or the rodeo ice queen.
White ribbon stuffed in my back pocket, I try not to feel bitter as I shake hands. Accepting what I'd wanted here-the second slot in master showmanship-feels less like a happy second chance when bestowed with the ice princess’s condescending smile. Squaring my shoulders, I stride out of the arena with Ice at my right, relishing the heartfelt congratulations of family and friends as I move towards the barn for a break between classes. I’ve still got competition to beat tonight.
Me and Ice. FFA Advanced Beef Showmanship, 2009