I just can't kick the habit

A common joke among horse people goes like this: If you want to keep your kids off drugs, get them hooked on horses, and they’ll never have money for anything else.

Sure, we laugh — we laugh as hard as the average layperson about the exaggeration — but we know. Right? We know this is a truism disguised as a joke. You can hear it at the end of our laugh. There’s a catch in the voice, maybe a quiet sigh or a choked-off grunt.

It’s the reality hitting home. And, yes, to be clear I am saying that horses are like drugs.

I thought I had my using under control. I had three horses. I was happy with them. They suited my noncompetition, laid-back horse-style. They got along. Everything was on an even keel. I had the horse urge under control.

But here’s the thing, the dangerous thing: friends who are also into horses. These friends put things into your head. Not screwdrivers or that sharp pencil your teacher told you not to run with. Worse. They put ideas in your head. Ideas about horses. Ideas about owning more of them. Paying good money for them, for crying out loud.

I know you see it coming, but just wait for it because this is a tale at least five years in the making. It started with my friend, whom I will just call Conscienceless Horse Addict “R.”

You know those hard-core partiers who make excessive, addictive consumption look like an advertisement for living life to the fullest — so awesomely full you don’t hear the voice-over guy rushing through a long list of dangerous side-effects.

Now, I’m not saying that it’s Conscienceless Horse Addict “R’s” fault that I just bought a horse because, to be honest, she got that stallion five years ago after I found her a smokin’ hot deal on that stud muffin. And I know that makes me sound like a remorseless pusher, but you shouldn’t get hung up on labels like that and lose sight of the fact that she has been partying pretty steadily on some horse-buying drugs. She now has a sizable herd of these horses.

I resisted joining Conscienceless Horse Addict “R” in this foolishness for a long time. I waited and researched and checked my zero-balance horse budget and resisted some more. Then one day I talked to a guy about a stinkin’ good deal on a filly, and I knew I was bailing off that wagon. I sold the idea to my husband in under five minutes, shipping and handling included. I think he knew what was going on.

It went down like this:

Me: “So honey, I found almost the perfect horse, except she’s not free and she live in a land called New Hampshire. I’ll sell my broke horse to make the money for her.”

Husband: Asked questions, made no demands, then “Yes,” as far as he was concerned I could get the horse.

So I called the guy and said “Sold.”

Then the next day I started telling some friends about this horse I’m buying and my husband said, “Wait. What?” And I said, “The horse we talked about yesterday.” And he was all, like, “???” staring at me in secret code. And I’m all patient and stuff saying, “We talked and you said yes, no objections.”

“I know, but …” he started to say, but didn’t finish. He didn’t have to because spouses like us are quite intuitive understanding the unspoke words between us. Clearly he had succumbed and was resigned to deal with the highs and lows of my refurbished horse addiction.

I’ve savored every moment of the last six months it has taken to put this deal together. I’ve gained 10 pounds from stress eating, started chewing my cuticles and in the last four hours of waiting for her delivery, I broke out in a rash and got full-facial, teenage-grade acne.

Clearly, as a drug, horses are not for the faint of heart.

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This ain’t no half-baked Cheech and Chong “Up in Smoke,” excellent high with Harold and Kumar. This mess, right here, is “Breaking Bad” at [email protected].