By Kim (of So Many Places)
Clearly the only way to approach a wrestling party is with six unbridled hours of daiquiri drinking.
My roommates and I, highly creative even while drunk, would smash the mold and attend the event as wrestling wives. Between daiquiri consumption we perfected our look: sky-high hair, stuffed bras, eye makeup the color of a robin’s egg and spiked heels. Oh lord, the heels.
Because I was close to hurling, I scored the noble position of front seat in our chauffeured ride to the big event, a gigantic white Buick we dubbed The Glacier. We pulled into the gravel lot behind the party and the world outside spun like a globe while The Glacier remained oddly, vomit-inducingly, unmoving.
I squinted. Macho Man Randy Savage was engaged in a pushup contest near the fire pit and Jake “The Snake” Roberts smoked a cigarette on the porch. Andre the Giant loomed near the back door bonging a beer with The Ultimate Warrior.
Everyone piled out of The Glacier and made their way to the party. I gave myself a pep talk. Kim, you can do this! I opened the door and took a step, successful. I took another step, things were looking good. Then suddenly I was down, crumpled on the ground, like Rowdy Roddy Piper himself had attacked me from behind.
Through the daiquiri haze a figure came toward me, his yellow briefs glowed, his bald head gleamed in the street light. Was that Hulk Hogan? Hulk picked me up and his Fu Manchu mustache moved. I touched my hand to his lips. Yes, he was talking to me.
He carried me upstairs and down a hallway. He took my heels off and laid me on a bed. “Stay here, you’ll be okay.” He closed the door, then Hulk was gone. Before I passed out I thought to myself, holy sh#t, I’m going to die, and when they find my body I’ll be dressed like a hooker. But I didn’t die because Hulk Hogan, the avenger of evil, saved me.
So I married him.
“Those who shun the whimsy of things will experience rigor mortis before death.” — Tom Robbins
Kim is a writer in Portland, Oregon. She and her husband
Hulk Hogan Brian are in the process of selling their stuff, quitting their jobs and taking off on an around the world adventure. You can follow their journey here:
Torre DeRoche is the author of two travel memoirs, Love with a Chance of Drowning (2013) and The Worrier’s Guide to the End of the World (due out September 2017). She has written for The Atlantic, The Guardian Travel, The Sydney Morning Herald, Emirates, and two Lonely Planet anthologies.