I've never been much of a cryer. In fact, I used to think my tear ducts were defunct. It took extreme situations like getting dropped off at college for the first time or breaking a finger to get me to shed even the slightest tear.
But now? Now? With all these stupid girl hormones coursing through me? Forget about it. I cried watching WRESTLING. Yes, wrestling. As in professional wrestling where steroid-laden men hurt themselves on purpose.
But one of my favorites was bleeding. Bleeding real blood. Yes, Jerry has explained to me numerous times that these men load up on aspirin to thin their blood before a match, causing it to leak out of their face with gusto when they get slammed in the forehead with a metal folding chair. He has also explained that they get split open so many times that it takes little to nothing to do it. And besides, he says, they're getting compensated enough financially to wipe up the mess with hundred dollar bills.
And yet, even knowing all that, Shawn Michaels was hurt. And before you get all, "Woa, um, Kelly? You watch wrestling? Enough to have a favorite?" on me, I can explain. Jerry is an avid fan. I would say he's a rabid fan, but I don't want him to sideline me to the ground and put me in a sleeper hold.
Anyway, Jer took me to a live show when we first started dating, and with his radio connections, we got to escort his station's contest winners backstage to meet a few wrestlers.
Well, I couldn't have been less interested. I mean, I wouldn't have been able to pick out any of these people if they passed me on the street, so I was the only one backstage without that crazy obsessed fan gleam in their eyes. Not to mention I was the only one with a vagina.
So when I met this one wrestler and he blatantly started hitting on me in front of my future husband, not only was Jerry pumped that one of his childhood heroes wanted to sleep with his girlfriend, but I sort of thought it was cool that someone famous thought I was hot.
Here's where my memory gets a little fuzzy. I thought the person hitting on me was Shawn Michaels. But I guess it was someone else who looked like Shawn Michaels. Either way, even though we were sitting ringside and I should've been able to discern whether it was the same person I had shaken hands with moments earlier, I remember watching Shawn's match thinking, "That guy totally loves me." And, thus, my favorite wrestler was born. Even though, um, I guess it wasn't him.
And as our relationship progressed -- mine and Jerry's, not me and the wrestler -- I became more knowledgeable about pro-wrestling. And even though I have a hard time signing up for every pay-per-view, it's Jerry's "favorite day of the whole year." I mean, "The undertaker is 14-0 for Wrestlemania and he's going head-to-head with Batista for the World Heavyweight Championship!"
With that kind of a buildup (and Jerry selling it by saying it in a pretend crazy wrestler voice and pumping his arms like he was the one going up for the title), I agreed to watch it with him.
Everything was going fine until Shawn started bleeding. Not only am I squeamish about that sort of thing, but it was almost as if I could feel his pain. Not the physical pain. A deep emotional pain of having to earn a living by getting hurt every week on national television.
So I cried.
And when Jerry asked in his oh-so-concerned way, "What the hell is wrong with you?" instead of explaining the intricacies of how a long career of wrestling could foster some deep-seeded emotional issues, I somehow got to the root of the problem and voiced it accordingly.
It was screamed in sort of a "DON'T FUCK WITH ME OR I'LL DO WAY WORSE TO YOU THAN MR. KENNEDY CHOKE SLAMMING THE EDGE THROUGH A METAL LADDER OFF A 20-FOOT DROP!"
And I'm pretty sure I got my point across: Don't make fun of my tears that I can't explain or prevent or I'll literally bite your face off the same way a female praying mantis eats her mate.
Now go get me a tissue.