The Other Side: Being A Wrestler For 90 Seconds

By Kellyanne

Hey folks. My name is Kellyanne, and I am a wrestler from Australia who is currently working with Ring of Honor. 

The reason for putting down this text is to give you some insight into the world of wrestling. I know you think you are overexposed to “wrestling insight” right now. All you have to do is open Facebook and hit your favorite wrestler’s page to find a plethora of personal information. 

“I LIKE CHEESE ON MY CHEESE SANDWICH.” 

Come on, man. That’s not insight; that’s just fishing for cheese lovers so you can get a few more people caps-locking your name on the next “Who’s the No. 1 wrestler?” poll. If you like cheese – keep eating it. If you want to try something else on the menu, read on. 

Twitter handle @ChickfightsRock asked: “As a lifelong pro wrestling fan, I always find myself being mocked for it. I’d love to know how non-wrestling people in your life (friends, family, co-workers, strangers) have treated you when you tell them you’re a pro wrestler.”

It’s a fun idea. 

Meeting someone new, you’re retaining about five percent of the conversation. Why? Because you are waiting for the five sweetest words that can come out of another human’s mouth  

“And what do you do?” 

“I AM A WRESTLER.” 

Then you answer a series of questions. It doesn’t matter what they are; the point is you start to believe you’re interesting for about 90 seconds. At 90 seconds, you notice your interlocutor’s (thesaurus alert) attention span leaning towards the basket of fries on the table. Can you blame them? French Fries – hot as the sun, in a basket, and screaming to be eaten. I, as a wrestler, cannot compete with that. 

Cold hard fact: Being a wrestler is a novelty. Novelties wear off quickly. Novelties are passed on. 

People do not care that you are a wrestler. They are too busy living out their dreams of being funny, engaging, charming – your existence is not part of the fantasy. The only time you being a wrestler has any significance is when the person who knows you can pass off the novelty onto someone they are trying to impress.  

Frank: “Oh, this is Kellyanne. She’s a wrestler.”

Steve: “A wrestler, how interesting.”

Frank: “You know me, I try to keep a diverse social circle.”

Steve: “True. Wow, these French fries are amazing.”

Kellyanne: “…..”

All my wrestling did in that situation was facilitate Frank’s fantasy.

The situation is the same when it comes to family. Just replace “french fries” with an eccentric uncle. Everything seems like a transaction in this world of self-commodification that we are living in.
 
I know it is not the picture some of you fetishize.

I know you want something like this:

Kellyanne walks into the party. She’s wearing a leather jacket with spikes on it and a short flannelette skirt. Every person she passes stops dead in their tracks, whispering to those within an earshot, “It’s Kellyanne.” 

The approving looks from patrons unfold on the venue like a well-orchestrated Mexican wave. Finally, Kellyanne stops dead center of the dance floor. The music halts. Every attendee ceases to talk, to move, to breathe as Kellyanne clears her throat. The great one is about to enlighten the party.

“My name is Kellyanne, and I am a wrestler. You see this jacket? It did not pay for itself. You see the stains here, here and here? That is blood. Some of the blood is my own, some of the blood is from other people. Blood paid for this jacket. That is how we roll in wrestling. You may be asking yourself why I am here at this formal party wearing a bloodied leather jacket.”

Kellyanne begins to walk the borders of the avid listeners that formed around her.
 
“It’s for your benefit. You, it’s for your benefit, and yours.”

She looked around, an expression of sorrow on her face, and slowly lowered her head. The mysterious and very interesting wrestler that everyone wanted to know more about looked defeated. She threw one arm high into the air, keeping the same posture, her index finger pointing at the ceiling. Raising her head, everyone could see the excitement now in her expression. 

“I’M A NOVELTY, A DOOR PRIZE! CONGRATULATIONS!”

Her rant sped up as she darted from one guest to another, addressing each one individually but loud enough for the entire audience to hear. 

“I'm on a bus on a psychedelic trip,
Reading murder books, tryna stay hip.
I'm thinkin' of you. You're out there so ...” 

Everyone was hanging onto their drinks in anticipation of where this was going. One woman squeezed the stem of her champagne glass so hard it shattered, cutting her hand deeply. Blood was gushing all over her ballroom gown, though so enraptured with Kellyanne’s words she was utterly ignorant of it. Little did they know Kellyanne had just quoted her favorite verse from the song “Eyes Without a Face” by Billy Idol. 

“Such a human waste,
Your eyes without a face.
And now it's getting worse.”

The venue erupted in a chorus of cheers. Kellyanne won an award that night for the most interesting person ever. 

My point is – if they cannot recall the lyrics to one of the greatest songs ever made, do you really think they are going to let you leave a mark? 

K.A

The Other Side w/Kellyanne appears every other Wednesday.

 

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