Whoever decided that the combination of skintight thin pants and knee-high black leather boots made for an attractive and stylish way to dress a horse person needs to be strung up by their thumbs.

I suppose it's partially my fault; I could've chosen to ride solely Western style. That would have involved jeans with heavy chaps and cowperson boots instead. 

But I love to jump. Taking one of my two horses over a course of fences is a real thrill, so breeches and boots it is. I avoid the damn things like poison for casual riding or training, but for every show, they come out and taunt me.

The breeches cling. Every bump, lump and roll is cruelly accentuated by their tight fit, and the boots have been known to cause blisters. But unfortunately, when I put them on in the pre-dawn hours for a day-long show, they stay on all day. Wriggling in and out of the breeches several times over the course of 12 hours is a battering my poor self-esteem could not survive. 

My younger horse, His Klutziness, and I were involved in a jumping circuit last summer for beginning jumpers. It was low-key and featured horses at his training level, which was perfect for a horse as inclined to trip over his own feet as clear a 2’ fence.

He had been a little fussy all during The Day, but he is occasionally fretful when kept away from my older horse, His Stubbornness, for long stretches of time. I kept him moving in small circles at a trot and canter to keep his mind on the business at hand while we waited for the flight ahead of us to conclude.

There was a short delay, only about 15 minutes, after the flight concluded, and then it was our turn to enter the ring. I soothed His Klutziness with gentle scratches on his neck as we entered the ring and performed our courtesy circle in canter. The circle is designed to give riders a chance to collect our horses’ attention, and also demonstrates our horses are sound.

The wind chose the moment we were circling to pick up, and a scrap of paper blew across His Klutziness’ nose. He skittered sideways, unintentionally crossing the start line.

(In jumpers’ classes, horses are judged based on who finishes the course without knocking down any rails, and the fastest clean time wins. By crossing the start line, His Klutziness had started our time.)

I whipped him around toward the first fence, which we cleared by taking the jump at an odd, sideways angle.

“Hey,” I hissed. “Pay attention!”

His Klutziness was in no mood to respond; he was busy looking in every direction except the one in which we were traveling for more scraps of Horse-Eating Paper.

The second jump was super sloppy; we were practically on top of it before His Klutziness noticed its presence, but he cleared it in a rabbit-jump fashion.

(Fortunately, in jumpers it doesn’t matter whether you clear the jump prettily; all that matters is that you get over it.)

But it was the third jump that was our undoing. His Klutziness doesn’t like stacked barrels – for some reason the sound of dirt scraping against the barrels reminds him of snapping tiger jaws.

He approached in a straight enough line, and I had just enough time to notice his ears, instead of being forward to notice the jump, were laying flat on the sides of his head in an expression of pure crabbiness, before I was suddenly catapulted forward. His Klutziness had evidently decided the presence of the dreaded barrels was the final straw, and had ducked sideways at the last possible instant, even as I was cuing him for the jump.

I flew over his shoulder, cleared the low but highly formidable barrels and landed on my face in an extremely undignified heap, dragging my knees and face along the ground.

That was when I heard the riiiip.

Oh please, I prayed silently, face still pressed into the dirt. Please let that not be what I am almost completely sure it is.

His Klutziness, feeling much calmer now, whuffed softly as he bent his head down to sniff the curiously bare patch of white skin presented to the entire world.

And into the moment of almost complete silence, one voice, as honest as the child in The Emperor’s New Clothes, rang out.

“Look mommy, her pants tore and she’s not wearing any underoos!”

(I must differ with the underoos comment; I was wearing a thong, because any other underwear leaves underwear lines in clear definition. But I’m sure at the moment, it certainly appeared I wasn’t wearing any underoos.)

I stood up as quickly as my bruised dignity and even more bruised body would allow, pressing my unexpectedly bare backside against His Klutziness’ shoulder.

“I apologize sir, I think I’ll have to forfeit,” I solemnly told the judge, whose jaw was actually hanging open. “Excuse me.”

Mustering what shreds of dignity I could grasp, I calmly exited the show ring, limping a little on my twisted ankle and leading my now perfectly complacent horse.