I have recently made a discovery.
I like horses.
Furthermore, I like riding horses.
But now? I mean, my makeup use is still limited, and I am only cautiously curious about boys. But look at me, I'm baking and riding horses. Me and my little Mormon girl self.
Irony is great in literature, even though most of the time it stinks in real life. But cliches? They stink in the fictional and the un-fictional world.
But here's the thing. I like riding horses. I like feeling tall, because I usual don't. I like being fast, because I'm usual not.
And there is a romanticism to horses. They're tied to knights in shining armor and the Old West. They invoke ancient images, the kind that come with rose colored glasses. So instead of bumping around on the back of a large animal, you're participating in tradition, in the melding of beings, and the planet's pulse.
Oh gosh. I might actually be romantic. The cynic in me is cringing.
It's cliche that I love horses, but is it OK as long as I don't love them because it's cliche?
I've pretty much decided that I don't care. How pathetic would it be if I didn't do things I liked just because they're cliche? So I'm going to keep making bread. And riding horses. Cliches, I defy you by refusing to let you dictate to me. I am not your secretary.
"It's a sin to kill a mockingbird."
3 weeks ago