There is something wrong with me. 

Okay, that was kind of cheap, a shameless writer’s hook, but I’m serious.  I’m worried about myself.  I’ll share, then ya’ll can be worried, too.

You see, I can’t stop poking around this certain website.  Ah — I know just what you’re thinking.  Your mind just skittered around all the possibilities for a website that would shame me, didn’t it?  Porn?  Ew.  No.  Match.com?  Nah, been there, done that, wrote about it.  The website I can’t seem to stop messing around with is ThePioneerWoman.com.

Kate, if you’re reading this, I know.  You found it first.  I’m admitting that right here in print for all to see.  But Kate!  I’m obsessed!  I’ve got to write about this.

Simply put, I want this woman’s life.  Very VERY badly.  I have never felt this way before, never ever.  Sure, I’ve brushed up against momentary envy – who hasn’t?  A time or two, I’ve even felt a lingering jealousy, and worse:  regret for what-might-have-been.  These feelings were just hints of what was to come.

Pioneer Woman (aka Ree Drummond) lives on a working cattle and horse ranch with her husband and four children.  She writes, blogs, cooks, takes gorgeous photos, home schools her “punks” (which is, in all honesty, the only part of her life I DON’T covet) and generally enjoys the kind of lifestyle that most people believe went out of existence about 100 years ago.  This leads me to believe that something bizarre and beyond explanation happened in the mid 1970’s. 

Around that time, I was reading the Little House on the Prarie books for the first time.  I read that whole series into rags, read it so many times, I can quote long passages to you.  More than anything on this earth, I wanted to BE Laura Ingalls.  I wanted to GO WEST.  The Little House books were rapidly followed by “Seven Alone,” “The Oregon Trail” and any other book I could get my hands on that depicted a pioneer lifestyle.  My sister and I acted out every scenario around this subject that you can possibly imagine — we played “Wagons West” for YEARS.  All of our doll-play cented around this theme, and much of our outdoor play as well — an old empty horse trailer on the farm across the street was our covered wagon; the shed was our mountain cabin, which we had to defend from marauding mountain lions and ravenous bears.  And when the movie “The Wilderness Family” came out, my fate was sealed.

That was the life for me:  Remote.  Off-the-grid.  Self-sufficient.  In touch with nature.  Oh, and critters.  Lots and lots of critters, beginning, of course, with that most magical and coveted of creatures, a horse.

So how the heck did Ree Drummond end up with my life?

If you check out her website, you’ll discover that she is, in fact, a city girl gone country.  You’ll discover that she truly enjoyed her city lifestyle, and never dreamed she’d end up loving life on a working ranch, but when she met her husband, that was it — Big City moved to Green Acres, and there’s she’s been ever since.  LIVING MY LIFE.

And don’t even get me started on her husband.  Boy.  Woo, boy.  Only now do I truly understand the meaning of the word covet.

Clearly, Pioneer Woman somehow managed to take over MY karmic path some time around 1977.

A healthy person, of course, would have checked out her website, said, “Wow, what a cool life!  Wish I had that!” and then moved on.  I am NOT healthy.  I check out her website DAILY.  Sometimes twice a day.  So, as you can see, my opening line was not writerish or shamelessly hooky — it was TRUE.

I saw the most beautiful thing today, in my 7th period speech class.  This class has become an endless revelation to me, but today was extra special.

Today, I watched one of my girls open her arms up to the room, her face alight with interest and confidence, as she stepped out on a limb she’d never tested before.  The impromptu topic:  “What is your favorite subject in school and why?”  Her answer:  “History.”  She expressed her love poetically.

“Imagine for a moment, walking into the colloseum, the stands filled with people, the sand so hot under the sun…”  And back in time we went with her, to her beloved Rome.  She took us next to Greece, to “turquoise waters and olive groves.”  

The beauty of her speech didn’t lie in the vividness of her descriptions, though they were good indeed.  It was her, and the fact that last week, she delivered her impromptu with only one of her gorgeous eyes peeking out from behind a curtain of hair, in a voice I could barely hear, and said “I don’t know…” six times in 45 seconds.  This week, she ran for the edge and dove off.

Teaching is such a complex profession.  Part art, part science — drudgery a monkey could perform coupled with mental acrobatics that leave you exhilerated and fried, all at the same time.  Who’s on task, who’s not, what time is it, how much left of the agenda, tap this desk to wake without shaming, which hand to pick, acknowledge this student, give that one the chance to answer, every name every day, correct an incorrect answer with the correct question, return to give student another chance for success, now BREATHE!  And do it all again next period.  I can’t describe how much I love it.

Today, though?  Today I saw a young woman take the first steps towards a skill she didn’t have before.  Her lovliness, her daring, took my breath away.

This piece originally started with the claim that I’d been studying men since the second grade…but that’s a lie.  I noticed boys in the second grade, but honestly?  I didn’t start analyzing them until much, much later.  This is an unfortunate truth, and a contributing factor in my divorce, I have no doubt whatsoever.  I can’t even claim that miserable event as the genesis of my heightened scrutiny, nor can I say I began to dabble in the dating world with a more discerning eye.  No, in all honesty, I have match.com to thank for this development.

Interestingly enough, all men my age on match.com are “spontaneous” and “easy-going.”  Every last one of  ‘em.  The majority have motorcycles.  To a man, they “have no time for games” and “hate drama.”  Most are “up for anything new” and spend their weekends “hiking, biking, riding, running, camping, fishing, skiing, boarding” and about fifteen other vigorous activities I haven’t the patience to list.

Now, you are certainly questioning my claim to optimism by this point.  Those are great qualities, you’re thinking — what’s her problem?  Well, I’ll share — I met enough of these guys to figure out that a whole lot of  ’em were writing about who they WISHED they were, not who they actually were.  Couch potatoes who dreamed of season passes up at Breck or Copper.  Methodical planners who longed for the sexiness of spontaneity.  And ickiest of all, game players who have always and will always blame their need for dramatic explosions on the women in their lives.

A slow study I may be, but I do learn.  Analysis it is.

Men are more complex than we women give them credit for.  And they don’t think like we do — not even close.  The small-minded visciousness of my ex continues to flabbergast me.  I mean, why?  Why the continuing need to cause hurt, after all these years?  For you Clan of the Cave Bear folks, he’s the Broud to my Ayla.  Just need to keep rising above whatever he dishes out.  Often, men appear to operate under a different moral burden than we do — they don’t seem bothered by things that would cripple a woman with guilt.  Infidelity.  Abandoning their children.  Wielding their children like a weapon against their mother.  And finally, the speed with which so many men replace that defective wife — wow.  Most don’t wait for the ink to dry on the decree before they’ve got another woman bringing pizza over so they can watch movies at his place.

Well, how many of you have I lost?  Pretty negative.  Ironically, the opposite is what drove me to write.

Hope lives on, though it’s flavored bittersweet.  The men who have restored my faith in masculinity are all married.  Every.  Single.  One.  Of.  Them.  I work with some of the finest men I’ve ever known, and without naming names, I’ll cop to inappropriate feelings.  Before your eyebrows climb into your hairline, these are honestly not “naked inappropriate feelings.”  No, no, the sexual part of me I keep almost brutally suppressed.  Survival mechanism, and not something I’m going to talk about here — not without first consuming copious amounts of alcohol, anyway.  Maybe another time.  No, my inappropriate feelings fall under the heading of “wistful.”  What would it be like, to have X cook for me instead of his wife?  Would I take it for granted if Y always took care of my vehicle, getting the oil changed, monitoring the tire pressure, keeping it in tip-top shape?  I listen to these men talk about their lives, their wives, and I yearn.  Worst of all is the beloved old high-school friend, the boy who never once said a hurtful or demeaning thing in all the years I knew him, the “just a friend”  for whom I felt a zing of “more than friend” from the 8th grade right up until this very day.  A fine, fine man he has grown into.  Very fine.  Very married.  If I permitted myself, which I absolutely do NOT, I could wallow in the agony of might-have-been.  How would my life be different today, if I’d chosen a man like Z to be my lover, father my children, sleep by my side through long winter nights?

And there was the key word:  Choice.

Cripes, until this last year, I haven’t “chosen” a damn thing.  I’ve reacted.  Or ricocheted.  Until recently, I dated whoever asked me.  That makes me sound slutty, so I will clarify:  I did not SLEEP with whoever asked me.  But I have given so much of my time to frankly unworthy men, just because they asked for it.

And you know what?  Enough of that shit.

Having a small self-image crisis this morning.  I’ve always prided myself on my lack of acquisitiveness when it comes to material possessions.  I have this little patter I do about “measure your life by what you have, not what you don’t have.”  Kind of a smug patter, really.  Wondering why one of my friends (or my sister — c’mon, Kris!) hasn’t pointed this out to me before.

But this morning, I covet.  I want.  I desire.  I long.

Not for “true man-woman romantic love,” or more money, or sex, or any of the other deficits that are currently making themselves felt in my life.  Sure, enough cash to restore my cursed lawn would be great.  A boyfriend (specifically, one who stays put in his own house with his own kids and leaves me to my own devices here in my domain) would be fun.  And sex — well, that’s only a dim and misty memory.

This morning, it’s horses.  And on some level of my consciousness, it has been horses every day of my life.

PBS airs a show called “Equitrekking” that I love — I’ll plow right over the top of whatever kid is vegging out to catch it.  I currently have three videos checked out of the library on horses.  Every night, when I’m straightening my daughter’s toys, I carefully restore each and every Melissa & Doug horse to its proper place in the wooden panorama they came in — Thoroughbred in the “blue-ribbon-stall,”  Appaloosa in the “western campsite” and so on.  There are four books on my coffee tables on horses.  In other words, in all ways except ONE, I’ve got horses in my life on a daily basis.

I haven’t ridden a horse in more than a decade.  Haven’t touched one in over two years; in fact, the last time I tried to lead a horse out to pasture over at Pikes Peak Therapeutic Riding, I got bit.  Lacey had a bad tooth and unfortunately, I was the first to discover her consequent irritability.  As a child, I was only rarely in the physical presence of horses.  And as long as I’m being honest here, I’ll cop to enduring the mercurial and often cruel “friendship” of a certain childhood companion only because her family bred Arabians.  I put up with a lot just to catch a glimpse of the animals she took for granted, and I think she figured it out; as we got older, she held the prospect of a ride out like a carrot, and very rarely delivered.  I remember how my heart used to ache as the hours of a hope-filled sleepover crept by, only to have the hour of departure arrive without even a visit to the stables.

I love the way horses smell.  I love the way they move, the beauty of their coats, their manes, the sounds they make — everything.  My first poetry was about horses, and every once in a blessed while, there were horses featured on the back of my cereal box.  I remember every single one of those instances, lingering over breakfast to gaze my adoration.

So here I am on a beautiful January morning coveting, desiring, wanting, and wondering how the heck I can turn this longing into reality.

Impromptu topic in my speech class today:  “In your opinion, who is the most talented celebrity?”  Recipient of question:  A freshman girl, small and sprite-like, bit of an edgy dresser, full of spit and vinegar when she’s challenged.  Her answer:  Taylor Somebody-or-other.

“He’s the most talented celebrity, because he’s really…”  Her eyes darted to me.  To say the word that hangs in the air, or not?  This teacher seems pretty cool, but is it worth it, to court a reprimand?  Maybe a JC?  She chose the conservative path, which surprised me.  “He’s really toned,”  she stressed.  But her flushed cheeks and fluttering hands gave her away.  Clearly, toned wasn’t what she had wanted to say.

And that was pretty much it.  Taylor Whoever-he-is was the most talented celebrity, thanks to his dedication to health and fitness.  She took her seat.  And I promptly dumped what little street cred I had with my 7th period speech class by inquiring, “Uh, Taylor…who?”

Well, for pity’s sake, what a brouhaha.  Taylor Who-sis, I can now inform you, plays “Jacob Always-shirtless” in the Twilight movies.  He is a very beautiful young man, my irate young lady huffily informed me, and this time she was outraged enough to dare the vernacular:  HOT.  How could I NOT KNOW Taylor Lollipop (or whatever)?

We were firmly in digression-land by this time, and sometimes you chase the bunny.  “So this Taylor — he’s, what?  20?  21?” 

An instantaneous unison reply from ALL the female students in my class:  “He’s 17!”

Worse and worse.  “You do know,” I said gently, “That my oldest son is almost 17.  That means this Tyler –”

“TAYLOR!!!”

“Yes, Taylor — he could be my son.  Should I REALLY think he’s –” and here I indulged my gift for imitation, “HOT?”

Outrage transmuted into disgusted “EWWWWWW”s.  Mission accomplished.  But at what cost?  I wanted to ask my young firecracker why “toned” meant talented.  I wanted to ask them all.  I wanted to pause for a moment, to mourn this latest piece of evidence PROVING I’m not young-and-cutting-edge anymore (and cripes, how much more proof do I need?).  Hollywood’s hot set is now young enough to be my offspring.  And Brad, object of my steadfast devotion since his Thelma & Louise days, has been declared “old and icky” by my young padawans.

But class marches on, with more impromptus to be heard.  The moment passed.  And in retrospect, I’m left with this consolation:  One day, this feeling I’m feeling will whack the Taylor Twilight Fan Club President upside the head.  She, too, will experience a youthful heart inside a not-so-youthful body.  She’ll realize that her favorite tunes are being played on the oldies stations, her hairstyle is, well, DATED, and she has clothes that are cutting-edge style because “retro” is in, and they’re still hanging in her closet from the first time around.  As consolation goes, it’s pretty good…

Well, it took me a while to overcome the guilt of adding YET ANOTHER BLOG to the www, but my own selfish agenda has overridden said guilt at last.  Simply put, I need to write.  I need to get my word-herding skills (thanks, Michael Perry, for that perfect phrase) toned and strengthened.  Got some goals, folks, and first and foremost among them is to make writing one of my sources of income.  I’ve considered myself a writer since I was 8 years old, when my heart-felt poem about the beauty of horses won a spot of honor in a young author’s contest.  Still love horses, and still love writing.  Some things, you just don’t outgrow.