February 23, 2026 
This was the week my editor rolled into town.
She immediately had me crying alone in the bathroom of a fancy Palm Beach five-star hotel.
One can barely help it as a writer, as the word of one’s editor can take the fragile artist-in-the-making from the heights of ecstatic accomplishment to the depths of unproductive despair. [Editor’s note: *sigh*]
It was actually the second evening I was in this hotel, as I decided that I, prolific columnist and sport horse owner, must make inroads in the fashion world. Too often, I find myself culturally bored in my little equestrian world and feel it must become more colorful and filled with artistic and literary references to titillate my ever-active brain.
So I started by going to a Ferragamo event on Wednesday night. I wore my cat pajama top because it is the weirdest clothing item I currently own (although this must change) and I thought a pink and orange striped oversize shirt with floating cat heads would help me fit in. Which it did, wonderfully.
On the next night, I went to a SCAD (Savannah College of Art and Design) documentary film premiere at the same establishment. This time I wore all hot pink. I had some hot pink pants I had bought at Target during the now-controversial DEI days, when Target decided to bring in some super-cool designers of color, who produced super-awesome little collections that popped up briefly in their stores and sold out almost immediately because they were so cool.
I felt awesome wearing my DEI pants and walked into the fancy hotel with the maximum level of confidence.
I was meeting my editor at this event, which was the screening of a new documentary film about a great supporter of SCAD, the cultural and fashion icon André Leon Talley.
Unfortunately, when I arrived at the event, my super-mean editor texted me to say she was not coming and really didn’t feel the need to keep her commitment as I, she said, had lately developed the habit of missing deadline. [Editor’s note: I didn’t say that.]
This I did not take well and went into the bathroom to cry. I texted my editor to tell her I was in the bathroom crying. I further explained that I had received a very devastating blow earlier in the week, a bad bit of news in that part of my life that has nothing to do with horses, which put me in bed, stoned and xannied out, for three days.
My super-mean editor then turned super-nice and heroic, and the next thing I knew she was sitting beside me at the screening of the documentary!
This had the effect of resetting my brain chemistry in an extraordinary way. I’m not 100% a neuroscientist so I’m not sure exactly how this happens, but I think it might be like when I forget to water my plant and then suddenly remember and way over water it plus I don’t have a pitcher so I fill this wide-brimmed vase in order to do it and much of the water does not make the pot and ends up on the floor.
I think that’s what happened to my brain with whatever neurotransmitter transmits happiness because suddenly everything became maximally delightful. My editor joined me in Palm Beach on a Friday and by the time Saturday Night Lights rolled around, I was tingling from head to toe.
I was no longer worried overmuch about the bad news I had received as I felt (as discussed in a previous column) that any adversity that might come my way, while most probably due to the chaotic and unpredictable nature of the universe, was all part of the inevitable path to spiritual transcendence. And that’s the path I’m on.
With all worries packed away, I golf-carted to the second five-star Grand Prix of this year’s Wellington season!
I consider myself, at this time, to be a creature of Wellington. I will state flatly that I think this is the place to be in the winter season. Proof that I think so is the fact that I am here. I feel this should be sufficient proof of the concept for anyone, and yet they have placed me in no ads for the place at all.
At our VIP table, we have developed a ritual for enjoying these GPs. First, everyone must choose a rider to win and no one can choose the same person. I don’t care how much you think Vogel will win, if I have picked him first you must go with Darragh! Or Nina! Or McLain! This is because we want one winner and that winner wants the opportunity to lord his win over everyone else.
On this Saturday, I picked Darragh because he won the qualifier and was back in competition after a brief respite (it was not due to dedicating himself to competitive gardening) and I felt he would be sufficiently hungry.
For a while, I admit, picking winners was all we did, but after Richard Vogel’s triumphant win during Week 5, we added “winner must take selfie with winner” to the ritual and since everyone else I sit with is either shy or a too-proud professional, I am the one that must lead the selfie acquisition.
For instance, my editor (she picked Shane, he got third) is too professional and dignified for a selfie. This fact, however, does not make me cry in the bathroom. I just feel sorry for her.
Someone at our table picked McLain. I did not pick McLain mostly because he was so early in the order—fifth—and it is usually tougher to get a clear so early AND to not get beat in the jump off if you are first to go. So I doubted.
What a fool! McLain took it despite the way Mark Bluman and Landon handle the last jump of a course, which is totally awesomely. (They were runners-up).
Getting a selfie with a winner as popular and sought-after as McLain is no easy task for the shy and professional, so we waited an eternity while he signed loads of hats and t-shirts and took selfies with other people.
Afterwards I accompanied my editor to the presser. I did not have credentials, despite my stature in the industry as this columnist, but they let me in anyway and even offered me food and drink.
All the time my editor says to think of questions and to ask them and maybe show some interest in someone besides myself. I say in response that it is very difficult for me to be interested in people that aren’t myself. I go on to further say I am too old, too used to myself, there is no space for anyone else, everyone else is boring to me unless they are speaking in the pages of a book!
But I tried to listen and learn. It was not easy to listen as the sound in the media centre was quite poor, but to me the most interesting part was when Mark Bluman was asked about the pressure of riding such a great horse as Landon is.
He seemed confused by the question. “Pressure? There is no pressure, I do not think of it as pressure, but as opportunity.” I am paraphrasing, as I must, since I was not recording or even taking notes.
There I was feeling intense pressure sitting on a stool in the glass-walled media centre, risking nothing, while Mark Bluman threw himself at 1.60m oxers of impossible width from impossible distances while feeling no pressure at all.
So riders are made different, we all know that.
After the presser was over, I took Bluman’s gifted Yeti insulated cup and McLain’s beautiful blue winner’s bouquet, which were both left on the table. Shane took both his bouquet and his Yeti, which had the weird effect of impressing me, as I figured he must take nothing for granted and appreciate everything he wins or is gifted.
I gave my editor a ride home to some place off Appaloosa, north of the show. In general, I do not travel in that area, as I am a creature of the south, my farm residing right up next to the Everglades. I refer to anything north of it as “the suburbs” and I do not refer to Loxahatchee at all, claiming that I “never go north of Southern Boulevard.”
(As an aside, there is a rich man of my acquaintance who refuses to leave “the suburbs” where his farm is, neither venturing to the north nor the south, although he will go east for some polo. We are constantly arguing about it as he flatly refuses to visit my farm. He feels his fancy cars cannot take the “dirt road” he imagines he would have to travel to get there. There is no dirt road, although there is a pebble drive of a decorative nature, but he will not believe me. It is an unfortunate fact that we are unable to develop any further intimacy, although we could perhaps be great friends, due to our being trapped in the small geographic areas circumscribed by our snobbery.)
After depositing my editor, I accidentally put the address of the fancy five-star hotel into Google maps and it was only after carting in unfamiliar surroundings for 20 minutes that I realized my mistake. I was I-don’t-know-where on some dusty bridle path. I never put up the windshield on my ’cart as I like the wind in my face and my hair, so I was covered with dust from head (mostly head) to toe. I felt like I was out at Thermal, the Desert Horse Park, where someone once told me that a fart can kick up a dust storm.
By the time I made it back to the show grounds, it was dark and mostly uninhabited. It felt lonely in a way that was absolutely delightful to me. I didn’t see horse or car driving back to the farm, only the dark streets with the crescent moon hanging like a smile in the black sky.
