My daughter had been planning this day for the better part of a year. The pony bug had arrived in our household the way pony bugs tend to — quietly, then all at once — but this one came with a uniquely, gloriously specific fixation: she wanted to ride an Icelandic horse. Not just any horse. An “Icelandic” horse.

Welcome to dichotomous thinking — the cheerful little tyrant living rent-free in your head, sorting the world into Good and Bad, Success and Failure, Friend and Foe, with the brisk certainty of a customs officer at three in the morning.

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