Hanging with Horses

At twelve years old, my daughter, Lily, wanted a horse. As a trial, we rented a beautiful red chestnut with a white blaze named Dan. The first day, Lily saddled and bridled Dan, slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung her body up with ease. They jogged, cantered, and raced around barrels. Then she slid off and handed me the reins.

I never rode before but—how hard could it be? I had watched every lesson since Lily was five. And watching lessons paid off. With just a flick of the reins, Dan turned left and right and walked in circles. Riding a horse was thrilling—until it was time to get off.

When I thought about getting down, my breath left me. It seemed as if the horse’s legs had grown taller. Lily tried to talk me through it: “Mom, just hold the saddle horn, lean forward, then swing your leg over and slide down.”

I grabbed the horn with both hands and laid my chest against it. It felt safer to have my body close against Dan’s. I swung my leg over, slid down, and tried to jump to the ground.

But I only landed on my toes. Something kept my feet from touching the ground. I realized then that the front of my bra had gotten hooked around the top of the saddle horn. Holding the reins with my right hand, I tried to pry the bra up with my left. It wouldn’t budge.

My breath quickened as I imagined Dan running away with me suspended at his side. I looked for Lily to help. But, when she saw me dangling by my bra, she took a step back and scanned the ring to see if anybody was watching. No one was there.

“Mom…stop it, get off the horse.”

“I can’t,” I said, “come here and help.”

An image flashed through my mind of what I must look like pinned to the horse by my undergarments. I was hooked at the sternum, frantically pulling at the bra with my left hand, clenching the reins with my right. My shirt scrunched into a midriff exposing my belly. The tips of my toes barely touched the ground.

Laughter overtook me with silent, involuntary gasps. Lily’s furrowed eyebrows and entrenched feet only made me more hysterical.

“Mom, c’mon—get down.”

“I’m telling you, I can’t. Lily, you have to help me—please.” I could understand Lily’s embarrassment. At twelve, the sight of my mother hanging from a horse by her bra would have embarrassed me too.

Dan began to walk forward. With each step, the front of my bra slid further down the saddle horn. I tried to say an authoritative “Whoa” but I was helpless with laughter. As Dan galumphed forward, my shirt inched higher and, one by one, my breasts popped out of the bra.

I learned then that an adolescent girl will not help a half naked mother hanging from a horse. When she saw my bare breasts, Lily turned her back and started walking toward the door.

“Lily!” I called. “Don’t go! You have to help me!”

Tears streamed from my eyes, my body shook, and I could hardly breathe but, despite the laughter, I was starting to panic—more so now that Lily was leaving.

The barn door rumbled open. A woman in riding gear strode in. By the time I called for help, my shirt and bra were bunched up around my neck—I was completely naked from the waist up—and still dangling at Dan’s side. She hurried over, struggled to release my bra, and set me free.

Dan stood unfazed.