ImageAnd yes, that is a non-ironic title. In the following essay that I wrote for Scoutmob, I justify my unlikely love for the surprisingly intriguing theatrical experience, known to most simply as “professional wrestling.” Read it, digest it, body slam it into you mind and become a fan. Me, on the other hand? I’ll be dreaming of becoming the first permanent female commentator to kvetch with Michael Cole, laugh with Jerry “The King” Lawler and high-give Booker T. Don’t recognize those names yet? Then you really need to read my essay.

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As I stood in line on Monday night at a kiosk in the Verizon Center waiting to get my hands (or back, rather) on a fluorescent pink T-shirt that read in gigantic black-light-ready block lettering “IT’S NOT SHOWING OFF IF YOU BACK IT UP,” I became keenly aware of who I was, er, who I am. Obviously, I’m still getting used to the idea. I’m a rabid World Wrestling Entertainment fan. 

There. I said it.

What started eight months ago as a one-time ironic viewing of a television broadcast called Monday Night Raw (a title that sounds perfectly fit to be the pinnacle of entertainment for stereotypical redneck Middle American males), had somehow become an obsession for me, a 32-year-old, East Coast-educated female urbanite. But how? Why was I in this seemingly endless blob of a line so eagerly anticipating my purchase of an arguably hideous T-shirt to support a wrestler/villain named Dolph Ziggler? That sounds crazy! Even crazier, why had I spent hundreds of dollars to fly all the way to Miami just 8 days earlier to catch WrestleMania, the Superbowl of this scripted sport?

Cliffhanger! To read the rest and view a slideshow of awesome photos from Monday’s show (the photo above is The Undertaker’s entrance from this year’s WrestleMania in Miami), click here. And while Scoutmob’s site can’t facilitate comments (yet), I’m eager to discuss with WWE fans and skeptics alike what you think of my theory on this unique form of entertainment, so feel free to leave your comments right here on this blog. 

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