The Velocity of Water
You have the spirit of a little brown pony.
Every step you make tells the world of your headstrong spirit and no-nonsense womanhood. You're blunt, not languid; Katherine Hepburn in a world of Lauren Bacalls.
But the most people do is take the time to make fun of your clothing.
That, of course, is yet another form of rebellion; swathing yourself in tentlike pastel pieces, refusing makeup, mussing your not-dyed-any-more mouse-brown hair; all ways to prove you are not management's puppet, and never will be.
You have more gumption than any of the Barbie dolls on top, not that people ever notice that.
Every match is a test; proof that Japan isn't the only holy homeland of feminine wrestling talent. You're almost a veteran, and you aren't even out of your twenties yet. Of course, you were "raised" outside of the in house "studio system," so no one's very interested in pushing you.
And then there's that "God Thing," which is how the bookers refer to your Christianity.
It's something you're not ashamed of; you love Jesus, Jesus loves you, and you make no bones about being a good Christian girl who doesn't wear short skirts. It may stymie your career, but Jesus will be there for you when the business decides you're too old to be a super heroine.
Plus, you'll have the nifty ability to laugh at Vince while he burns in hell. You're not a vengeful woman, but that really would be very neat.
Well, it's their fyoon; they signed you knowing exactly what your professional limits are. So they've booked around you, making you everything from a girl in puppy love to a sidekick in spandex to a prude who has a big rear and wears granny panties. And all of those gimmicks have been...interesting. Just not written enough or booked to a hot enough level. You're the only Diva with a G-Rated centerfold.
So now you're cannon fodder, hacking off your hair like a Little Lord Fauntelroy reject, pretending yourself Peter Pan instead of Wendy. But you've already grown up.
You would have cracked long ago if it weren't for your home life. But just as you're cracking, there's God, there's your bed, there's David. And life is a wholly tolerable thing.
Even if he won't marry you just yet.
Your mother taught you to be true to yourself, serving only God and yourself along the way. She admires you. But, more importantly, you admire yourself.
You shrug your shoulders. Kate wouldn't cry, and neither do you. So you forge on, like a little wild pony, breaking the sod of booking infirmity beneath your feet, a spring in your step and a sneer on your lips. Chrissy Hynde and Pollyanna in one package.
Your head, always, is tilted to the sky.