At the tender age of 7, I had probably taken over 200 ill advised dives from the back cushion of the couch in my family room to a couple of thin pillows on a shag carpeted-concrete floor. I was never able to put my finger on why exactly one side of my rib cage protrudes ever so slightly, but I think that would be a good a place to start as any. I'd raise two index fingers to the air and then drop the big flying elbow on Ted Dibiase, Hulk Hogan, the Ultimate Warrior or whoever I happened to dislike that week. It was notable that there was no Miss Elizabeth cheering me outside the ring.
I never understood that woman. All I wanted was to see Macho Man drop the elbow. I knew that she was always outside the ring for Savage and I knew she never had much to say. Even though my main priority was nailing the chest cavity with a thunderous fury, if one were to mention the Macho Man I would doubtlessly picture him with the Lovely Elizabeth.
Somewhere along the way I smartened up to women. As much as a teenager can smarten up to women. I was mostly marred by innocence growing up. With dashes of Penthouse forums and satellite TV. But when I saw the aftermath of the Macho Man retirement match with the Ultimate Warrior, I finally understood a little bit about the perseverance of love. In spite of what it was I thought of them as a couple, I followed them all this way. There are some things that just belong together.
Randy could blow out his knee, quit wrestling altogether. He could start a small newspaper stand in Fargo, North Dakota. He could fall in love a thousand times with the many women of Fargo. He could walk with them in the winter snow and hold them close for warmth and try and forget about anything associated with wrestling. He could forget about Pomp and Circumstance, he could never attend another graduation. Every night when he would lay down he'd still think about Elizabeth.
I started watching the build up to the wedding and recently, I think it hit a note with me that it never did before. It was completely ridiculous. My roommate wandered out and watched the proposal with me. He thought it was hilarious. Even now he mockingly says "Elizabeth, I Love You" in his John Wayne-eats-a-gravel-road Savage imitation. I couldn't laugh at it though. I couldn't laugh at the neon cowboy hat Randy wore during his proposal, or the tassled jacket. It was completely ridiculous but it was so completely Macho Man that it made me feel at peace.
When I grew up, I took a few dozen ill-advised leaps with my heart. It's been every bit as battered as my ribs ever were. But you have to take your bumps in love. You have to put gel in your hair and listen to music you don't like. You have to stomach food and drink you hate. You have to get dragged to outings and smile and make small talk. And then you have to sit there and take it when they tell you it's not working out. There is no sanity in love. It's a senseless, selfless punch in your face. No amount of preparation or devotion is going to keep you from getting knocked down. Love is just that desire to keep getting back up.
You put in your time getting knocked around so that you can realize it's going to happen no matter how many fancy blazers you wear or slacks you have pressed. If you can find a woman who would support your wearing plumage at the wedding then goddammit, maybe you found something worth fighting for. And I can't laugh at anyone for being passionate about something in this life.
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