The thong end of the spectrum

When I was a kid, flip-flops were called thongs. But these days, the latter term refers almost exclusively to a certain type of undergarment. It took several years and a collection of raised eyebrows and awkward stares to retool my vocabulary, but I eventually made the transition.

Illustration: Matt Collins

And although images of almost any beach suggest the two go together like peas and carrots, sometimes they just don't mix.

She was about 19 years old. I had never met her before, and after the embarrassment that was about to unfold, I wouldn't expect to see her again.

She came up to the back of the clinic leading a horse while detailing a problem it had with a tooth. She stopped walking at the back door but proceeded to dictate a long history about the horse's speed, and she surmised its decline in speed was due to its toothache.

She was a barrel racer and like the rest of them, she was greatly concerned with speed. But she was a bit different than the run-of-the-mill barrel racers that I had dealt with.

It started with her wardrobe. It wasn't the cowgirl outfit that most donned. She was wearing a denim skirt, a lacy green baby-doll T-shirt, a pair of flip-flops and an undergarment that left very little to the imagination. Curious about how I know that? Keep reading.

She continued to tell me about this supposed tooth problem as I motioned toward the stocks so she could secure the horse and I could start my exam. She continued to talk as she walked in front of the horse to change its direction, but her mouth was moving faster than her feet.

I looked down at the exact moment that the horse's right-front foot landed on the back of her left flip-flop. This set off a remarkable chain of events, beginning with me lunging forward to catch her.

Denim mini skirts do not stretch; they just move in the direction of least resistance. When a horse is standing on your left foot while the right foot is already over-stretched forward, that direction is up. The farther apart her legs split, the faster the skirt rose toward her waist.

I didn't have time to calculate the physics of it as I reached to break her fall, but the flailing arms and separating feet left little to take hold of.

The horse politely stopped when it saw its handler was in trouble, but it didn't move off her sandal. Her hanging onto the lead kept her from going down completely, but it might have been better if she did.

Here is the scene: There is a 19-year-old girl wearing a mini skirt around her mid-chest as she propped herself on one knee and two forearms while keeping her left foot squarely on the ground, thanks to a 1,000-pound horse. It looked like an impromptu game of Twister, minus the colored dots and happy faces.

I baled out on trying to catch her for fear of taking embarrassment to a whole new level. We both froze for a second in that position as we tried to figure a way to untangle this mess. Finally, the horse took a step back, and she sprang onto her back and then onto her feet, tugging down on the seam of her skirt that was gathered around her chest.

What do you say to a perfect stranger who just rolled into a ball of near nakedness in front of you? Nothing. We just continued as if nothing had happened.

We did the work-up on the horse, and I treated it the best I could. She paid the bill, jumped in her truck, and I have never seen her since.

That might be the day that thongs and flip-flops took on two completely different meanings for me. And I realized there would be times when the two just don't mix.