I was somewhere in my early teens. At school, somebody with zero background on the subject was making a boastful know-it-all speech about horses, cattle or something else cowboy related. My eyes rolled the whole bus ride home it seemed. After plopping down my backpack and changing into the same dusty wranglers from yesterday, I marched onto the barn to catch and lead the horses over to the quonset (our indoor arena).
As my Dad hauled the calves over and we saddled up, I began my rant. I jumped up top of my high horse as I swung my leg over the saddle on my very petite quarter horse. I started to divulge, in prideful annoyance, my woes of the day. My Dad quickly met me with a “So?” and I can only assume his classic, ”Does it matter?” The details are vague, but I just remember being immediately quieted. I continued to warm my horse up as the humility gently rested on top my shoulders.
There were many more instances that followed where my pride got the better of me. One such classic memory was a first day of college where the teacher introduced a girl wearing an NFR jacket to me. With my High School Rodeo jacket draped over the back of my chair, we both looked at each other with a distinct impression of buckle bunny. Thankfully, we shortly dropped our labels and are still to this day, the closest of friends.
As the maturity sets in, I am pondering this wannabe title we give out. And you know what?
I’m a wannabe. And I always was.
I’m a wannabe because at the end of the day I still wannabe a cowgirl; whether that day was spent roping, riding or cleaning my house.
So whether our livelihood revolves around working cattle off a horse, drilling oil rigs, or a 9 to 5 office grind… at the end of the day, don’t we all wannabe cowboys?
Of course, a wife and mother is what I will forever wannabe even more 😉