Also, during the rides that scared me, I found myself reciting that I'd done scarier things: I'd written a 30-page paper on media law, I was maintaining a 4.0 GPA in college, I was moving out in two weeks, I was going to graduate in about a year.
"You know what's scary? Scary is not knowing what you want to do with your life in one year," I said to my boyfriend as we waited in line for the Ferris wheel.
"Now that's a ride of a lifetime," he agreed. It was also ironic that at the time, we were literally surrounded by middle school cheerleaders. Who were cheering. I'd never felt so old.
We took a break from the rides to look at the cows and pigs (you know it ain't a fair unless you see them hogs), and we saw a horse. Now, I've seen horses before. I've seen cows, bulls, goats and pigs. I've even fed a calf by bottle and held a piglet in my arms. Did I mention I'm a farmer's daughter? But this horse was different. Maybe it was because I was still spinning from the rides, but it looked so incredibly big, and I felt so incredibly small. I felt so inexperienced, so young, so innocent and so awed by this horse's magnitude. I felt like I didn't know everything in the world, because here I was, stunned by a horse.
Maybe one day I'll be impressed by rides again, and not even take the time to glance at a horse, but I really doubt it.
My favorite part about the fair was the Ferris wheel. A moment happened every turn when my bucket seat had nothing in front of it but the sky, and I couldn't see anything below or behind it. I was in this perfect spot, where the sun was setting, and I felt calm. I didn't think of big things or small things. I didn't think of what was behind, and I didn't care what was ahead. It was all beautiful.