The Polo Widow: A Field Report by Snooty

The Polo Widow. I have studied this creature extensively.

She arrives at the yard on a Saturday morning wearing an expression that says I had plans. She did not have plans. She had hopes. There is a difference, and polo has taught her this difference in the most efficient way possible.

He said it would be a quick chukka. It is never a quick chukka.

The Habitat

The Polo Widow can be found in several locations:

In a camping chair at the edge of the field, holding a coffee that has been cold for forty minutes. She is watching. She is not sure what she is watching. Something involving mallets and shouting and, occasionally, me.

In the car park, reading a book she has been trying to finish since March.

At the bar, making friends with other Polo Widows. This is, I will admit the most sensible thing any of them do. They have formed a support network involving wine. They have opinions about handicaps that are frankly more accurate than the committee's.

The Grievances

I have compiled a list. It is not exhaustive.

The weekends. All of them. From April to September, the weekends belong to polo. She knew this going in. She did not fully understand what she knew.

The kit. There is always kit. Boots that need cleaning, vast amounts of grass stained white jeans that need washing, mallets that need revamping. The kitchen table has not been fully visible since 2019.

The debrief. After every match, there is a debrief. He will explain in considerable detail, the third chukka. She will nod. I was there for the third chukka. He is not remembering it correctly.

The pony talk. At some point in every evening, the conversation will turn to me. My performance. My attitude. My opinions on the going. I have opinions on the going. Nobody asks me directly, which I find rude.

What She Deserves

Here is where I will be generous, because I am capable of generosity when the mood takes me.

The Polo Widow deserves recognition. She has held things together — the household, the schedule, the emotional infrastructure — while he has been frantically attempting an off-side forehand that I could have told him wasn't going to work.

She deserves a gift. A proper one. Not something chosen in a petrol station on the way home from a tournament.

Might I suggest:

A Polo Mare mug — because her coffee is always cold and she deserves something warm that acknowledges her suffering with appropriate wit.

A Polo Mare candle — for the evenings she spends alone, in peace, which are honestly the evenings she enjoys most. She will not admit this. It is fine.

A I'm a Polo Widow hoodie — because she deserves to wear her truth, and wear it well.

These are available at Polo Mare. I endorse them. I endorse very little, so this means something.

In Conclusion

The Polo Widow is a person of considerable patience and questionable taste in partners. She has chosen a life adjacent to polo, which means she has chosen a life adjacent to me, and I think we can all agree that is not the worst outcome.

She will be back next Saturday. She always is.

I am glad.