The Velocity of Water
You are sweet as candy.
Everyone who's met up with you before knows this; you are an angel in white netting, filled with generous curves. Men watch you and wet their lips; you tempt like a chocolate bonbon.
It's taken awhile to peel those layers back and make them look at you like a human being. And it doesn't work all of the time.
The universe is obsessed with your breasts. It's funny to you, because they're a part of your sexuality and womanhood, yet they live lives of their own, worshipped like ancient relics.
You oil them up and stick them out, like prop balloons squeezed by a corset. Some part of you is even proud of them, because, darnit, they don't look too bad (even though the Internet loves to refer to them as looking "veiny"; you're thrilled to have any blood left there at all.).
They just get in the way when you climb into the ring.
When you're there, it's all business; awareness lies heavily upon your shoulders, because you Know that you've advanced the company's worldview of women as wrestlers.
It's a vain thought, but a true one.
You're glad that your job no longer involves rolling around in chocolate pudding; that, somehow, you've become the first legitimate WWE Woman's Champion since Lita. When you first claimed the title, you were a pillow with biceps; now, you're the Most Improved Wrestler of the year.
You credit those years of fitness modeling and just move along, because the amusement you feel at realizing that they're shocked by your ability is priceless to you.
Life, to you, is Shane, your dog, trying to hit the perfect bulldog, building your body and portraying a Good Little Greek Girl when you go home to your parents. All of those jokes in My Big Fat Greek Wedding? They hit home.
And they make Shane panic like a two-year-old. No wonder you spend as much time as possible in the Carolinas.
When you look in the mirror every morning, you see an open, generous face on a Barbie-ish body, but shorter. You sort of look like the Tammy doll your sister had; the new Marilyn Monroe, the new Jayne Mansfield, but squatter, shorter. You don't want to leave your head or your heart behind.
In your worst moments, at the end of the day, you wish they would dig beneath the face of a princess and look into the heart of you, the woman that's become a wrestler and now belongs to the business with every inch of your being.
You're grateful for the rare exception; the kudo that tells you your match-set is improving; you can sell, you can work an audience. You can tell a story.
But they'd rather lick your surface with their eyes.
You fear that, one-day, you will just melt away.