I’ll admit it. I was a city snob. A clueless city snob. Having lived most of my life in big cities – including Boston, New York and Los Angeles – I kinda just figured that cities were where real fashion and beauty happened. Then I started dating The Cowboy, spending my weekends on his ranch, a 10,000-acre sprawling estate miles from anything but silence. The closest cities were not cities at all, but towns. Small towns.
Anyway, The Cowboy recently took me to one of these towns, to attend something called a horse sale, held at something called a sale barn. Among his people the sale barn is rather like the mall to city teens, a place to go to see your friends, get caught up, and spend money. Being a clueless snob, I was sure I’d be the best-looking, or at least the best-dressed, woman there.
Imagine my surprise, then, when the woman who came out on horseback to help manage the horses in the sale ring looked like a Hollywood pilates instructor. Pretty face, incredibly toned arms, a belly flat and solid as a ironing board. Her jeans fit the way you hope jeans will fit, but (in my case, anyway) never do. There was another head-turning woman there, too, fit as could be. She wore cute jeans with a sparkly rhinestone belt, and a pretty top tucked in. It was a little intimidating how effortlessly she radiated hotness.
“Do these women work out or something?” I asked. Cowboy grinned at my naivete. “Ever sat a horse for six hours straight?” he asked. When I gave him the “you know I can’t ride a horse” look he replied: “Best core workout in the world, darlin’.”
After the horse sale, we stopped at a something called a Livestock and Feed store to have some work done on one of the ranch pickups. I was shocked to find half of the large mercantile occupied with fashionable clothing and shoes for women. I began to roam, sifting through racks of fabulous clothes made by brands I’d either underestimated (Wrangler) or never heard of (Cruel Girl). I ran my fingertips over the elaborately beautiful boots, gasping at times at the fact that these things cost as much as a pair of Zanottis.
“See anything you like?” Cowboy asked, his wry grin communicating a sort of vindication. He’d known country girls were as fashionable and hot as city girls, in their own way, and was once again bemused by the dismantling of my well-honed prejudices.
When I got back to the city, I made a beeline for the new Shepler’s store and bought myself a couple of pairs of Wrangler Rock 47 jeans, and a pretty top. I wanted one of those sparkly belts, too, but couldn’t quite bring my formerly all-Ann-Taylor-all-the-time self to make that leap yet. I needed a few more crunches — okay, a lot more crunches — to get to that point. Or a horse. I also became absolutely enamored of a boot company called Old Gringo. Their stuff is drop-dead gorgeous. I can’t afford a pair yet, but I’m saving.
On behalf of all snooty city chicks, I’d like to apologize to country girls. Y’all rock them Wranglers, but unlike us desk-sitting city types you girls don’t need a personal trainer or fancy gym to do it.