On the rare occasion – no more than three times a week – when I find myself with a mouthful of shoe leather, I can’t help but wonder where things went sideways on me. What I have slowly started to realize is that communicating is an art form, and like art, it is completely subjective and open to interpretation. Whereas Picasso is an artistic genius to some, to others he is simply a crazy person who clearly lost every game of Pictionary he ever played.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I am an “expert” at poor communication, but having been on both the giving and receiving end of a variety of ineffective communication styles, I am definitely no slouch. As a result, I would like to convey some of the various pros and cons I’ve picked up relative to some of my favorites. Think of this as my own little public service announcement, a thank you as it were, to you for being a faithful reader. In the interest of complete honesty, however, be careful what you do with this information since 1) I still regularly end up with my foot lodged where it shouldn’t be and 2) my “expertise” has not been validated by any objective third party.

The Direct Approach (aka the Drill Sergeant) – On the plus side, it is virtually impossible to misunderstand what the Drill Sergeant is trying to tell you. If nothing else, they are incredibly clear. In my own experience, I often find myself more comfortable being politically correct than being direct. Whenever I have to say something that I expect will lead to conflict or turmoil, I often end up watering down the message to the point where I end up sounding like I’m reciting a children’s book.

The Drill Sergeant could care less about being politically correct. Andrea’s grandmother Lil was a staunch advocate of the direct approach. An amazing woman, she never bothered with the trivialities of political correctness whenever I interacted with her. On the second occasion we spent time together, she greeted me with “wow, you sure have gained some weight, looks like you’re eating okay”. Nothing politically correct about that. Just the facts, followed by a quick smile and a hug. No ill intent, just direct and to the point.

One of the biggest challenges with the direct approach is that if you are like me and you are not necessarily the most secure and comfortable with yourself, the feedback can be fairly discouraging. In the case of Lil and my “weight gain”, after the initial embarrassment wore off, I proceeded to spend the next 3 hours sucking in my gut to try to compensate. While this did little to alter the fact that I had, in fact, gained some weight, it did help me realize that holding my breath for extended periods of time is not a viable alternative to diet and exercise.

The Passive Aggressive Approach (aka the Smiling Assassin) – I am not proud of it, but I am a recovering Smiling Assassin. As opposed to being direct and potentially causing conflict, I have typically opted for the indirect path, saying what I need/want to say wrapped in a beguiling shroud of humor. Or attempted humor, at least. Often the recipient doesn’t find me funny in the least, but in my defense, I come from a long line of Smiling Assassins.

The biggest challenge with the Smiling Assassin approach is that it is has the potential to be completely lost on the person with whom you are communicating. The ultimate success of the passive aggressive approach relies heavily on the other person being a mind reader, and the vast majority of the world seems to lack that ability. I know I do. Whenever people have tried the Smiling Assassin approach on me, given my relative lack of clairvoyance, the end result invariably involved them angry and me utterly confused, mumbling things like “how was I supposed to know ‘I would love to’ really meant ‘I think you are taking advantage of me and I want to kick you in the kidney’”?

One derivative of the passive aggressive style that I believe came about as a direct result of our inability to read minds is the fairly popular “bless your heart” approach. Admittedly, I wasn’t that familiar with this method until I spent some time in the South, but after seeing it in action, I must admit, I find it fascinating.

Definitely still in the Smiling Assassin genre, the “bless your heart” style is for those of us who aren’t comfortable being completely direct, but still want to ensure that our message is not lost. Struggling with telling someone you don’t enjoy spending time with them and “I can’t stand being around you” is just too direct for you? Slap a smile on your face and try “Wow, it really isn’t enjoyable being around you at all now is it, bless your heart”. They might be disarmed by the smile, but they will get the message. Having been the recipient of my fair share of “bless your heart” daggers, I can assure you of that.

The Condescending Approach (aka the Know-it-All) – As a parent, I regularly am required to play my “Father Knows Best” card when engaging in familial debate. This typically leads to a hearty round of laughter from my family, but if nothing else, it does help to slightly diffuse the situation.

While it is true that the bulk of dismissive, patronizing (or matronizing), know-it-all behaviors are most effectively utilized by parents, the reality is that everyone is capable of being condescending. Personally, I adopted this approach well before I became a parent.

My first job after college was with Deloitte Consulting, and my first project was to manage a software development team on a fairly decent sized project. The average age of the developers was probably in the neighborhood of 42, and I was the ripe old age of 22. Always eager to prove my worth, I regularly behaved in a way that could be used in a “What Not To Do At Work” training video for new hires. At the time, I had no clue how condescending I was being, how “listen to me, I know best” I was behaving, because I don’t think the Know-it-All ever really sees the impact of their actions. In my case, I was so wrapped up in trying to compensate for my own insecurities, I completely missed the fact that I was seriously ticking off a group of seasoned professionals who knew a lot more than I did.

The main problem with the Condescending Approach, at least from my perspective, is that with the advance of technology, it doesn’t really work anymore. You see, more often than not, Know-it-Alls are little more than BS artists. I know, because I was (am?) one, and trust me it just doesn’t work anymore. Oh sure, there was a time when people would just accept whatever BS you threw at them, but now, with information so readily available, if you don’t have your facts straight you are in serious trouble. Even Andrea, my loving, supportive wife, has the audacity to regularly question me when I start spewing my worldly knowledge. And the Internet has made it pointless for me to even argue anymore. Well played Google, well played.

There is no denying the fact that communication is an art, and that there are countless ways of doing it. While some styles seem to work better than others in different situations, I have found that the direct approach seems to be the most effective. It’s clear, concise, and avoids any potential confusion. As mortifying as it is to have your weight gain called out in front of your in-laws, at least you can’t complain about misinterpreting anything or missing a hidden clue buried in a backhanded compliment. But if you do give the direct approach a try, it wouldn’t hurt to sprinkle in a little empathy every now and again. And remember, if things start going sideways on you, just throw in a quick “bless your heart” and you should be good to go.

Case in point, when I went to get a haircut the other day. A simple, routine haircut. Typically, a trip like this – unlike my wife’s 2+ hour hair makeover marathons (I mean seriously, how can it take that long to get a haircut) – would last all of around 6 minutes, and include very little dialogue. As far as I am concerned this is okay because to me, haircuts are a lot like salt. A commodity. Find the least expensive place, with the most valuable coupon, take just a little off the top and sides and voila, haircut complete.

While this approach is fantastic from a cost savings perspective, it does have some drawbacks. In my entire life, I’ve never had a shared vision with a stylist for achieving my optimal hair style, I’ve never been stopped on the street by a stranger complimenting me on my glorious head of hair

and on more than one occasion, I believe my hair was cut by a janitor as opposed to a licensed stylist, but for $4.99, I’ve never really expected too much from the experience.

Anyway, on this most recent occasion, I had the opportunity to try out a new establishment. Not because of my discerning tastes or anything, but simply because they had sent me a coupon that couldn’t be beat. As I sat in the chair, the “new customer” friendly small talk began. Only this time, out of the blue, the conversation took an interesting turn.

Sandi (with a heart over the i on her name placard) – “So, how was your day?”

Me – “Good, how about you?”

Sandi – “Busy. Where do you work?”

Me – “I work for a radio station.”

Sandi – “Cool. That must be so exciting. What do you do?”

Me – “I’m an analyst.”

Sandi (with a disappointed look on her face, like when you tell a child Santa Claus isn’t real) – “Oh. What does that mean? What does an analyst do?”

Me (pause) – Awkward silence

Me (slightly deflated) – “I don’t know Sandi. I analyze stuff. You’re right, what do I do? Or more accurately, what am I doing with my life? I don’t know, does anyone really know? Am I fulfilled? I don’t know Sandi, what does that even mean?”

Sandi – “You’re done.”

Me – “That’s a bit harsh don’t you think? I mean I’m only 36, and while, yes, I didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming an analyst, and yes, I haven’t exactly accomplished everything professionally that I would like to, I mean, shoot, I don’t even know what I want to do with the rest of my life, I don’t think I am by any means done.”

Sandi (confused, and a tiny bit scared) – “I just meant that your haircut is done.”

At this point, I tried mightily to muster up some semblance of pride in order to depart with grace and dignity, but that ship had long since sailed. I vaguely remember trying to save face by awkwardly joking about the trials and tribulations of middle-age, but Sandi didn’t seem to grasp the subtle hilariousness of aging. At least I remembered to use my coupon.

My philosophical debate with Sandi, complete with her blatant disregard for my fragile ego, left me in an interesting state of mind. While I firmly believe that I am far from “done”, I do often find myself questioning what I want to do with my life. When I spend time with Tyler and Kailey, I love hearing all of the grand plans that they have for their lives. Tyler has wanted to be everything from a soccer player to a firefighter to a daddy, while Kailey has consistently set her sights on becoming a member of the ruling elite as a princess.

To date, neither of them has ever mentioned wanting to grow up to become an analyst.

Often, Tyler and Kailey will have some of their classmates’ fathers – policemen, firefighters, military personnel, etc. – come in to their classrooms for public safety presentations, and to give the kids an overview of their jobs. Invariably, the kids come home amped up with their little fire helmets, excited to grow up and become community heroes ready to make a positive difference in the world. This year, Tyler was even fortunate enough to see the dad of one of his friends – who happens to be a full-fledged astronaut/pilot – suit up in his astronaut gear and fly a stealth jet into the stratosphere. In person.

Tyler has asked to come to work with me, but I must admit, I have postponed the trip because I am dreading the look on his face when he realizes that my cubicle lacks the ability to launch itself into space, the riskiest part of my job is the threat of a paper cut, and the “heroic” component of my job is non-existent. Ultimately, I do plan on bringing Tyler to work, but I am waiting until I can first coordinate a small cubicle fire with our facilities department so I can at least show him I know stop, drop and roll. Otherwise, a day filled with meetings, emails, and “analyzing” would probably bore the poor kid to death.

Like most kids, I had big dreams growing up. At various times of my youth, I wanted to be the President of the United States, a firefighter, a professional baseball player, even a movie star.

I don’t remember ever dreaming of being an analyst. I imagine there aren’t many (any?) kids who dream of cubicles, spreadsheets, and meetings. Kailey and Tyler definitely don’t. I actually find it somewhat amusing that I have a job that not one 6 year old on the planet would include in their “what I want to be when I grow up” list. Clearly today’s youth don’t understand how much fun can be had with office supplies.

To be honest, I struggle quite a bit with the “what have I been put on the planet to do” question. Like most of us, I really want to have a positive impact, to make a difference in the world, to accomplish something bigger than myself. The problem is that, as a naturally impatient person, I have a tendency of seeing only what I haven’t accomplished whenever I look at my life. Whenever I calm down long enough to think about what I have been able to do in my 36 years, I get pretty excited. Sure, I don’t necessarily feel like I’ve lived up to my full potential, but that’s okay. That’s what keeps me motivated, what keeps me moving forward.

I still have big dreams, but they have definitely changed from when I was a kid. You couldn’t pay me enough to be the President of the United States, and I am fully aware that becoming the starting point guard for the New York Knicks is entirely out of the question, but who knows what the future will hold. I know I don’t. All I know is that right now, my life is pretty good, and while I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, I’m okay with that. Sandi might think I’m done, but I think I still have plenty of time to change the world. Or at least continue to be an analyst my kids can be proud of.

I loved the sound of that plan. Still do. Unfortunately, my master plan had a serious flaw in it. Me. For whatever reason, I seem to consistently be the largest single impediment to my success. While there is an undeniable optimist within me – there are definitely times when I think I can do anything I put my mind to – there also is an unpleasant little critic within me who seems to thrive on coming up with creative, ingenious ways to sabotage my plans.

On an almost daily basis, this self-doubting side of my psyche (Neville, as I have started referring to him) sheds light on the countless ways in which I might fail in whatever endeavor I am currently engaged in. It’s not that I am schizophrenic or anything (who said that?), it’s just that, for whatever reason, when push comes to shove, Neville always seems to win. Regardless of whether I am navigating the constantly changing labyrinth of parenthood, or pursuing my professional aspirations of becoming a writer and a world-changer, Neville seems bound and determined to stop me in my tracks. And I seem bound and determined to let him.

When it comes to parenting, Neville has me convinced that I am completely ruining my kids. On more than one occasion I have considered starting a separate savings account earmarked exclusively for the counseling my children will undoubtedly need as a direct result of my failings as a parent. Let’s face it, parenting is tough work. As someone with perfectionist tendencies that border on the obsessive, I have struggled with the well-documented notion that it isn’t a matter of “if” you screw up as a parent, but more of “when” and “how bad”.

Every time Tyler or Kailey act up, talk back, lash out, look funny, or sneeze, I go into over-analysis mode trying to strike the balance of raising good kids and minimizing the psychological damage I inflict on them. Having a love/hate relationship with a part of my psyche whom I’ve named Neville doesn’t exactly scream healthy and well-adjusted, does it? I clearly have my own set of issues, but I want better for my kids.

With respect to my personal, individual endeavors – like writing for Always Live NOW – Neville is at his best. Whenever I start these new opportunities, the hopeful optimist in me is always in charge. Excited, motivated, and fully engaged, I think about what I am trying to accomplish, how I might be able to make positive changes in my life and – audaciously – potentially in the life of others, and I tear off down the path trying to make it happen. Sadly, almost without fail, my unbridled optimism is quickly replaced with fear, insecurity, and self-doubt. At these critical times, when success hinges on my ability to fight through my baggage, Neville ingeniously distracts me with creative excuses. A couple of my personal favorites include:

“You would be a fool to miss the latest episode of Hoarders/The Bachelor/30 Rock/etc.”
At last count, I believe our television receives something like 85,312 stations. On any given day, at any point in time, it is possible to get hooked on some show that I didn’t even know existed only moments earlier. There are a few shows that I like to watch weekly, but the real damage comes from random clicking. From shows like Jersey Shore that operate under the “people can’t take their eyes away from a train wreck” assumption, to others like Hoarders – my latest personal favorite – that try to fix damaged people, I can get hooked on almost anything. Neville knows this, so he often uses the lure of the television against me.

And yes, for the record, I watch The Bachelor. I am a sucker for shows that have a psychology angle to them, and I have yet to find anything more psychologically revealing than 20 women fighting for one man. The only real down side to watching The Bachelor is when I occasionally catch my wife looking at me during the show – usually after the hunk has gone on a dream date that ends up with him in a bathing suit – with a contemplative look that suggests she is questioning her life choices.

“You don’t have the right setup to be a writer.”
As far as excuses go, you might be surprised to think that this would even work, particularly since monumental works such as the Ten Commandments, the Constitution and The Grapes of Wrath were written long before the advent of an ergonomic laptop, but it has been surprisingly effective. I mean the Ten Commandments were written on stone tablets with a chisel for goodness sakes. But, believe it or not, if you are scared and insecure, it doesn’t take much to rationalize yourself into not doing something.

We have two computers at home, both of which are more than capable of capturing my thoughts. That being said, the “distractions” at home – kids, chores, television, etc. – make it virtually impossible for me to get anything done on the writing front. A laptop seemed like the perfect solution. That way, I could find a place to write, fire up my laptop and look out world. So, I bought a netbook. Portable, convenient, again, more than enough to write my stories. Thinking I had finally silenced Neville, I tried the netbook. After a few attempts at using it – picture a giant, hunting and pecking away at a child’s toy computer – I again sided with Neville and ceased writing.

Sensing that this self-imposed hurdle was one I could actually deal with, I finally purchased a legitimate laptop. I am happy to report that it is the perfect size, and like the tree bark that my forefathers wrote the foundations of our great nation upon, it is more than capable of capturing my thoughts. Our home now has more computers than an IT department, but hey, I’m writing again!

Writing these posts, stories, articles, whatever they may be called, for my little Always Live NOW web site has been incredibly rewarding, but also shockingly difficult. I’ve never thought of myself as a “writer”, but I love the idea of trying to share a story that is relatable, entertaining, and maybe even thought-provoking. That said, whenever I actually sit down to write, I spend a good portion of the time doubting myself, battling negative thoughts like “that sounds stupid”, “this isn’t good”, “no one is going to like this” or “you will fail at this”. Sometimes it gets a little too overwhelming, and it’s easier to just not do it. Neville convinces me that it’s safer to not even try, rather than risk the likelihood of failing and embarrassing myself. Days and weeks pass without writing, without pursuing something I really want to do, simply because I am afraid. It’s easy to come up with a million excuses, but the reality is that it’s just a simple case of me getting in my own way. Again.

I’m not sure exactly what is different this time, but I feel like I might actually have a chance at defeating Neville. Or at least peacefully coexisting with him. Despite the millions of excuses I have concocted over the past year, I always manage to come back to Always Live NOW. Weeks, even months, will pass with me letting him win, but somehow a little part of me has refused to give up this time. For one, I honestly just believe in the message. Having had my fair share of perspective-altering events over the past few years, I firmly believe that learning from, but not dwelling on the past, responsibly preparing for, but not worrying incessantly about the future, and living in the now is the best way to get the most out of life. I’m no philosopher, I’m just tired of making life way more difficult for myself than it needs to be.

Additionally, as scary as actually posting one of my stories is, I have found that I enjoy writing. I’m terrified that I stink at it, and despite the constant sparring with Neville, I love sitting in front of my computer trying to figure out ways to entertain, and possibly educate. I may not be a writer, I may end up failing miserably at this, but I don’t think that matters as much to me anymore. I am just excited about sticking with the attempt.

Overcoming 30 plus years of thinking a certain way is easier said than done, but to be honest, I have already achieved more success with Always Live NOW than I ever expected. Just the fact that I am still writing, albeit with some larger pauses than I would like, tells me I have Neville on the ropes. Plus, I am completely shocked that I have over 100 Facebook fans and subscribers – a small handful of whom are not even family or friends my wife has strong-armed into supporting me, no less!

To a certain extent, I think we all have our Neville’s. Skeptical, critical voices in our heads that create self-doubt, sabotage plans, and often keep us from even giving ourselves a chance. It really is a shame. My life, as wonderful and blessed as it is most of the time, is challenging enough without me beating myself up on my own. Every experience, every new pursuit, is an opportunity to be embraced and enjoyed, as opposed to feared and avoided. Sure I might fail, but it probably won’t be the end of the world. I have failed plenty of times before, and lived to tell about it. At this point for me, the victory is in at least trying. For once, finally getting out of my own way, and seeing what is possible. Now, please tell me one of you has contact information for Oprah.

Thank you for your support, your patience, and most of all, thank you for reading my stories. This year let’s all get out of our own ways and have a fantastic 2011!

The challenge with this strategy is that I am no cowboy. What is second nature to seemingly all Texans, including everyone in my wife’s family, is completely foreign to me. If necessary, I am 100% sure that every one of my in-laws – including my 4 year old nephew – could hunt, shoot, gut, skin, filet, cook, stuff and mount any wild animal, on their own, in order to feed their family. I, on the other hand, would quickly become a vegetarian if I was responsible for anything other than ordering from a menu. Thankfully, I have been blessed with wonderful in-laws who have been very accepting of my alternative lifestyle. That being said, I am fairly confident I saw a little part of my father-in-law die inside when he took me hunting and my weapon of choice was a pair of binoculars.

This past week, while on vacation with Andrea’s family in Breckenridge, I was presented with an opportunity to show the more rugged, cowboy side of me. Ever eager to impress, I jumped at the chance. As a group, we were going horseback riding, and I was excited about getting a chance to show how I could handle a horse with the best of ‘em. After all, I actually had some experience riding horses. Well, “riding horses” might be a bit of an exaggeration. Once, as a child I had ridden a crotchety, old Shetland pony we had somehow inherited. The ride didn’t last long as she almost immediately walked under a low branch to effectively scrape me off of her, but I was on for at least the requisite 8 seconds.

Despite my enthusiasm, I failed to realize that impressing my in-laws with my ability to do anything remotely Texas-ish is apparently not in the cards for me. The universe will not allow it.

As we waited to be partnered with our horses, I couldn’t help but marvel at just how strong the horses seemed. While I am not afraid of horses, I do have a healthy respect for them. They are big, fast, powerful and could stomp me into oblivion if they chose to. But today, I was ready to cowboy up. The weather was perfect, the scenery gorgeous, I was primed for a successful ride. And then I met my horse, Little Johnny.

Little Johnny was roughly the size of a sport utility vehicle.

I would be lying if I said my heart rate didn’t pick up a bit when I saw Little Johnny, but I tried to play it cool. No biggie, I had always wanted to ride what appeared to be a full-sized Clydesdale. It seemed liked the perfectly logical transition from the 3 foot tall Shetland pony I had “ridden” 20 plus years earlier. Even just getting into the saddle was a challenge. I nearly tore my hamstring trying to kick my foot up to the stirrup. Trying to be as graceful as possible, I saddled up. As if trying to control Little Johnny on my own was not going to be hard enough, it was somehow decided that my 2 year old daughter Kailey would ride with me. Undaunted, I grabbed hold of Kailey, got her situated in the saddle, and held on to the reins.

The best part of the ride, which also dramatically increased the degree of difficulty, was the fact that this was not the typical “5 horses tethered to a pole walking in a 20 foot circle” horse ride. This was an honest to goodness trail ride. We had a guide in front and in back, but each horse was free to do whatever they wanted to do. And Little Johnny wanted to eat. We had been instructed to make sure to stop the horses from putting their heads down to eat when they tried, but between holding Kailey in one arm, and holding the reins of arguably the world’s strongest, hungriest horse in the other, I was fighting a losing battle. I am a fairly strong person, but on countless occasions, every ounce of strength I had was still not enough to discourage him from stopping to eat.

“Kick him in the side when you yank up,” suggested one of the guides. Perched atop this mountain of a horse – a horse who already seemed to have issues with me – clinging to my baby girl, I thought that sounded about as smart as poking a sleeping bear with a sharp stick. Given his apparent dislike of my riding style, I was skeptical that kicking him in the ribs would win me any points, but I was out of options. I said a little prayer, kicked, yanked, and held my breath. Magically Little Johnny started walking. Almost immediately after starting, however, he turned and we made eye contact. I actually saw his expression change from anger to pity. I got the distinct impression that he understood that he was in complete control, and that there was no way I was going to “handle” him in any way that would even remotely impressed my in-laws.

About half-way into my 90 minute tug-of-war with Little Johnny, I began to notice that it was getting harder and harder to keep Kailey sitting upright. Somehow, in the midst of my groaning, straining, yanking and pleading, she had fallen asleep.

After I made some adjustments in the saddle to ensure that I had a firm grasp on her, I was basically left with only my right hand to try to control a mammoth horse that had apparently not eaten in well over a month. As if sensing my predicament, Little Johnny dramatically increased the frequency with which he stopped to eat. About every 30 feet, he would stop, yank his head downward, snicker and begin grazing. If you have ever tried to repeatedly lift a car that didn’t want to be lifted with your bare hand, while sitting 10 feet in the air and balancing a 30 pound sand bag in your other arm, with your father-in-law (whom you are trying to impress) patiently sitting behind you witnessing everything, then you have a sense as to the situation I found myself.

In between my frequent power struggles with Little Johnny, the ride itself was an incredible experience. The scenery was beautiful, the weather was perfect, and everyone was doing a great job on their horses. Tyler and his cousin Morghan, both only 5 years old, were riding their horses like old pros.

To be honest, with the exception of me struggling atop Mt. Johnny, you would have thought the whole group grew up on a ranch. Even Kailey, who had finally woken up from her nap, was thoroughly enjoying the ride.

Near the end of the ride, Little Johnny, either exhausted from my constant yanking and pestering or just wanting to prove a point, stumbled and fell forward on his front knees. He must have been embarrassed because, once he had regained his footing, he freaked out a bit and decided to buck and kick for a few seconds. To an objective observer, I am sure it was an innocuous little kick. But for someone tired, sore, and holding onto a 2 year old, it felt like I had entered a rodeo. I am proud to report that Kailey and I managed to stay on throughout the whole experience – an experience that over time will surely become at least a 30 second wild ride on a bucking bronco – and Little Johnny eventually calmed down.

To be safe, it was decided that Kailey would spend the rest of the ride with Granddad. As I admitted defeat and handed Kailey to my father-in-law, I swear I saw Little Johnny smile.

The last 10 minutes of the ride were pleasantly uneventful. I had both hands firmly on the reins, and anytime Little Johnny even thought about stopping to eat, I pulled on the reins, gave an authoritative kick, and we would mosey along. As we pulled into the stable, I was feeling a little better about myself. To a certain extent, I felt like I was on the right path towards redeeming even the tiniest bit of my pride, so I wanted to finish strong. While trying to dismount as gracefully as possible, I couldn’t for the life of me get my shoe unstuck from the stirrup. My “finishing strong” consisted of several agonizing moments working furiously to dislodge myself from the stirrup in an attempt to avoid falling on my face. Somewhat surprisingly, Little Johnny just patiently waited. Thankfully, I was able to ultimately dismount without further incident, but I think it is safe to assume that anyone watching would never confuse me for a seasoned cowboy.

This is not the first time in my life where my ego got in the way of reality. I guess I just got a little too excited trying to impress my Texas family. Plus, who wouldn’t want to be a cowboy? When push comes to shove, I think I could get a horse from point A to point B, but other than that, everything about my riding expertise screams “tourist”.

Things tend to work out better for me when I am honest about who I am, what I am good at, and what I am not. When I worry about trying to be something I’m not, it rarely ends well. Little Johnny reminded me of that. Repeatedly.