At last I'm a true horsewoman. Yesterday, a huge white Canadian Warmblood named Oscar threw me over his head to make a point. I'm not sure what his message was, other than 'I'm bigger than you' - he even sauntered over and gave me a regretful sniff with his huge nostrils as I lay there windless.
My sister-in-law, Carol, was riding the equine matriarch, Scarlett, and was at my side so fast, it was impressive. Somehow, she'd found my glasses and had them back on my head before my eyes even popped open again. She took both horses back to the barn and left me there with instructions: "Don't move!!!" which, of course, I ignored.
Checking all the parts, one extremity at a time, I could surmise all by myself that everything still worked. Still, my lower left back was hurting and my left leg felt tingly. The top right corner (yes, I now had a corner) of my head was bumped and bruised. My ego took the biggest hit.
Oddly enough, it was an initiation of sorts. So often I have heard the stories from my fellow riders about " . . . this one time I went flying . . . " or " . . . he flipped me right over the top . . . " but I had nothing to contribute. My own mother, Iva Mae, who rode a pony (bareback, of course) to school growing up in North Dakota, would talk about Betsy, who let her know when she was done by ejecting my mother onto school grounds.
At last, I am broken in.