Not to be confused with that faintly sour-smelling room at the back of your neighbor’s barn (where a questionable saddle from 1983 goes to die).
No, this is the Tack Room of imagination and impeccable taste. Where Chica Chukker polo whites brush up against belts stout enough to pull a tractor out of the mud.Where your horse’s noble accoutrements mingle shamelessly with your barn-to-society accessories.Where you can find the perfect pair of gloves to throw achukker or a dinner party. One minute you’re reaching for a lead rope.The next, a pair of cufflinks shaped like mallets.The Tack Room never apologizes for this confusion.It rather enjoys it.
Polished tack, questionable decisions · Boots buffed, ponies unimpressed · Smells faintly of leather, liniment, and ambition · Gringa has opinions and none of them are subtle · Polo mallets stored, egos left at the door · Hoofbeats are louder than excuses · Hay in your hair, dignity intact (mostly) ·
