[Editor’s Note – This column originally ran April 7, 2015.]
I really enjoy crushes – both having them and being the subject of one. They’re mostly harmless fun, and as long as you keep your wits about you, they can provide a renewed energy and zest for life that coincides nicely with spring. Well thankfully, spring has finally arrived (I was seriously worried that it wouldn’t come this year), and with it comes the giddy excitement of a new crush. And let me tell you, I’ve got it bad this year. From the moment I laid eyes on her one week ago at Wrestlemania 31, I’ve had Ronda Rousey on my mind, and not much else.
She’s everything I look for in a woman – bad ass, confident and absolutely terrifying. The woman looked like a viking warrior when she stood on stage as the wind blew behind her and, in her unsettlingly subdued tone of voice, she told Stephanie McMahon that she owns any ring she enters. Honestly, it was Stephanie’s mistake to taunt The Rock in such a way that forced him to seek a female counterpart to fight his battle. I’d take on the Rock over Ronda Rousey any day. In a flash, punches were thrown, Rousey had Triple H flipped over her back and then flat on his, and Stephanie McMahon was whining that trademark hyena scream as her arm was twisted behind her back. Ronda merely smirked as she held her in position.
I was obsessed. As a former fighter, I have a special place in my heart for girls who choose to enter the ring as legitimate fighters rather than a sexy spectacle at intermission. This isn’t a woman who needs people to hold back in order to make her look good for the cameras. This is a girl who is going to kick your ass, whether or not the cameras are rolling. If I’m being totally honest, I’m kicking myself for quitting karate when I was thirteen in favor of artistic pursuits. Did I sabotage my chances of becoming best friends with the UFC champion?
I took a week to let myself daydream about the bad ass blonde, and at the end of it I felt my stomach had finally settled and my baseline giddiness had returned to normal (which is still pretty fucking high, so imagine what a mess I was with the crush influence). It was a nice escape from normal life, especially after a horrific week of midterms.
Joel and I had made plans to see Furious 7 after visiting my family for Easter, as is the tradition in our household beginning this year and continuing until we die. I was already amped for two unnecessary hours of unjustifiable car chases, explosions, wild gunfire and and ridiculous plot holes. But what I got was so much more. Right at the midpoint of the film, flanked by Vin Diesel lifting a car with his bare hands and subsequently driving between three skyscrapers at maximum speed, came a very special surprise. I got a throwdown, knockout fight between Michelle Rodriguez and my beloved, Ronda Rousey. To add the cherry on top of this action-packed sundae, I got them fighting in floor-length evening gowns.
There is only a brief bit of dialogue at the beginning, in which we get to see that Ronda Rousey does in fact have legitimate screen presence and acting chops. But why waste time when you’ve got such talent on your hands? The fight doesn’t read as two movie stars playing around for the cameras to look tough – it reads as a genuine brawl with a sincere threat of harm. The best part of the entire altercation was the fact that it occurred in a private room, so there were no spectators to catcall the women as they had a plot relevant fight. Somehow Furious 7 managed to portray one of the more feminist scenes I have viewed recently. I am both delighted and deeply confused.
Ronda Rousey lept into my heart the moment she lept into the ring at wrestlemania 31. I can’t tell if I want to be her or be with her, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m just happy she burst on the scene. We all deserve a little Ronda Rousey in our lives. I want to see her more and more, in every medium there is. I want Ronda Rousey refusing to talk about her outfit on the red carpet. I want Ronda Rousey as the face of a major makeup or clothing line, proving that there are many different types of beauty outside of the thin or fat argument. I want the Internet to go crazy with gifs, screenshots and soundbites. I want the world to go full fangirl for Ronda Rousey.
Molly Regan is an improviser and writer in Baltimore. She likes chicken pot pie, Adam Scott’s butt and riot grrl.