Me? On a horse? What was I thinking?

If you could choose to be an animal, which would it be? Me? I’d be a horse; a huge chestnut one. Every time we pass a farm, my husband slows the car, and I gape at these muscular animals, at that deep brown sheen, the swish of the tail, that head shake.

One Chol Hamoed, after the “there’s nowhere to go” tantrums, one brave warrior suggests horseback riding. I say, “Neigh, neigh.” I’m not going on a horse. This is for the kids. I’ll come along for the ride, to take pictures.

“Mommy is scared,” nine-year-old Simchi announces. No one reacts. I’ll show them. I pull on a flared ankle-length skirt and an old sheitel.

It’s a shaky hour’s ride up north to the stables. I’m going to do this. Ride a horse. The car swallows the road faster than my mind can spew out reasons for or against. It finally stops outside an iron fence. The snow crunches under my feet as the last of my resolve melts. The trees, barren, sway in agreement. Who rides a horse for the first time in their fifth decade of life? I’m staying behind at the stable. Maybe I’ll pat a leathered flank.

I click the helmet strap shut on each kid’s head. How tough they look in black gear against the rustic shed. I snap a picture, look at it. Maybe I should ride?

My husband hands me a helmet. “Just try it on and come out to the horses.”

I pull it on, follow him out. The handlers are leading the horses out of pens, huge hulks with smooth saddles. Jack, the owner, pushes a wooden step close to a beast with deep chestnut skin.

“That one’s for you,” my husband pipes up.

“Noooo.” I shrivel back. “I’m not riding.”

Jack raises his brows. “Daisy is the kindest horse there is. She does well with scared riders.”

Simchi’s eyes are wide with wonder. What choice did I have? I inch onto the steps, put my shoes into the stirrups, drag myself up. The horse shudders.

“I’m going to fall,” I yelp.