Ever since watching "My Fair Lady," I have held the unwavering belief that a horse race is a glamorous event, an occasion marked by large hats, hoop dresses, and romantic encounters with attractive men who later dance on the street where you live (or give you grammar lessons).
Today, I was proven wrong. The Sam Houston Race Park smelled like pot, sweat and old horse dung, and was full (at 3 in the afternoon, mind you) of people peering intently at tiny television screens to see if their bets would pay off. It was altogether too much like the nightgown-wearing, vodka-sipping, middle-aged woman we saw over and over in Vegas, cranking the slot machine in the wee hours of the morning.
I guess it's a good thing I left my hoop dress at home.
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