I was promised a pony.
I have a big thing for clients who grit their teeth and keep attacking, in their own way, problems that have previously stymied them. These clients are determined to master these problems. These clients make me happy happy joy joy. I would say that they put me in my happy place, but there’s a cat there, who has sunk her claws into the chair and refuses to be pushed aside, so anyway. I love those kind of clients, and people in general–the people who never give up–because, last time I checked, that’s pretty much what life is: failing, brushing yourself off, and trying again…and again…and again till somehow it all clicks.
It reminds me of when I was learning to ride horses–For brevity’s sake, we shall not get started on the fact that for years, I was promised a pony. And that every Christmas/Channukah/Three Kings Day, my parents failed to deliver on said pony. No, I’m not bitter, why do you ask? I shall rise above that, on my broomstick.–at Claremont Riding Academy http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claremont_Riding_Academy, when I was about 6. So, there I was, learning to canter on a horse which could have probably eaten me and not noticed, and eventually I was thrown from the horse. Thrown, while the horse was focused on going at great speed. My mother, understandably a bit anxious by the situation, a wee bit horrified at the possibility of losing her only off-spring, rushed forward to rescue me and my trainer, physically stopped her, screaming at me to get up and get back on that damn horse! I did, the horse being far less terrifying than my trainer. Then, the trainer glared at my poor mother and said, “Mothers should not attend riding lessons.” That trainer was probably on loan from a WW2 cultural exchange program.
However, I did become an excellent rider, and I loved it. [Get your mind out of the gutter. Seriously.] So good that at one point, Paul, the stable-owner, seriously advised my parents to allow me to audition for the U.S. Olympic Equestrian team. (PS: Paul, the owner, agreed with my pressing need to have a pony. *Deep breath.* I’m fine. I’m over it. I didn’t get a pony. Who cares right? There’s children starving in Brooklyn.)
My point being: 1) I got thrown, I got a little bruised, it was a little scary but I got back in the saddle. I kept trying and eventually mastered it. Such is life right?
Point number 2) I was promised a pony.