The current holder of the title we were intended to steal was CM Punk. Covered in tattoos, with an irreverent attitude and a general distaste for authority and freshly laundered clothes, Punk, aka Phil, was the rebellious antihero the crowd went crazy for. A stark contrast to the all-American, fresh-faced, “drink your milk, kids” success stories that had preceded him. Another contender for the title was the masked giant and “Devil’s Favorite Demon,” Kane (real name, Glenn; it was a bit of a letdown learning these badass characters actually had the names of very white accountants). His character was a seven-foot burn victim who only found pleasure in bringing other people pain.
I had a poster of Kane over my bed when I was thirteen, so eventually having to straddle and make out with him on live television made for a bizarre experience, albeit a proud moment for my dad. My character stalked, harassed, and drove all three guys insane, in a soap-opera-worthy unrequited love square. Because even with three other losers hanging around, AJ Lee could not get laid. I would cost them matches and then flip on a dime and try to help them win some. It was never clear whose side I was on, or if my “charms” were possibly working.
It was ridiculous, soapy, brazen entertainment. It had been a long time since our programming had featured such a relationship-heavy, emotionally driven story line. It was groundbreaking and a brave step in a new direction. And that is why the fans jumped on board. They were excited to see something different.
They were intrigued to see a woman utilized for more than a bathroom-break match. The four of us were quite the motley crew of freaks and geeks not suitable for television, but something about it worked. We were like the Guardians of the Galaxy for the wrestling world, a bunch of castoffs who surprisingly worked well together. Antiheroes in an antilove story making bad decisions was a surprise hit for the ratings. What was supposed to be a one pay-per-view deal dominated a summer of television in 2012.
I got to wreak havoc, work with my childhood heroes, and introduce a new kind of woman in professional wrestling—a woman who when given the opportunity could captivate an audience with her words and performance, and not just her looks; a woman who could show range and layers of personality. The fans had spoken and wanted to see more of this kind of role for their heroines. They really dug crazy chicks.
Over the next year, I was the first woman in close to a decade to appear on a pay-per-view poster, naturally tying a man to a railroad track while a train barreled down on him. (The designers really got me.) I was voted the most influential female athlete on Twitter, beating out Serena Williams. I made it into my first of three video games and had not one but six action figures made in my likeness. I was the first woman to open and close the company’s flagship television show. And I became one of only a handful of women in the company’s history to wrestle in that show’s main event. Not bad for someone so unfuckable.
MAD GIRL’S LOVE SONG
There is a locker room in Corpus Christi, Texas, that smells of my dirty shame. After the salacious opening segment of our show, I ran here to escape the prying eyes and suspicious questions of my coworkers. I couldn’t shake what had just happened; the mixed emotions and racing thoughts rattled around my brain as I collected my padded bras and the plethora of unused clothing options that lay sprawled over a folding table. I sloppily chucked them back into my colossal, off-brand luggage, the one that on occasion I have felt the need to physically prove was large enough to fit my entire body. I couldn’t quite figure out why I was packing so early in the show. But I needed to move, to keep busy, in order to prevent my brain from short-circuiting.
With stillness came a flood of images, a flipbook of the dirty deed just done in front of thousands of strangers. With the images came a jarring feeling in my gut, like a fist squeezing and then twisting my intestines. Mistakenly slowing down to fold a hooded sweatshirt was just the opportunity my racing mind needed to replay the moment. My gut squeezed.
Through a tornado of skull-emblazoned T-shirts and travel-sized soaps, I watched Celeste, my work wife, best friend on the road, and most trusted confidante, rush into the room. It was easy to play it cool with my other coworkers, but Celeste had the uncanny ability to see through my bullshit. I desperately avoided eye contact while she steamrolled her way over to our corner of the room. She hovered, while I hunched over my bag pretending to be too preoccupied to talk.
“Soooooo…,” she began, somewhat annoyed.
“Yeah, what’s up?” I feigned ignorance and asked.
“What the fuck was that?”
I stared at a bottle of prescription sulfate face wash.
“That takes some balls! I thought you guys were supposed to peck or something. I didn’t realize there would be so much…tongue.”
I fiddled with my Degree Clinical, For Men deodorant stick.
“Dude, what was that? Are you mad? Did you plan that?”
I tightened the cap of my ingrown hair serum roll-on and began to realize how many products it took to make me less disgusting and—oh crap, she was staring right at me.
“Oh my God. No, AJ! Eww, you liked it?”
Liked it? I was appalled by the question. How could I like something so intrusive, so unwarranted? I was just trying to do my job, and he chose to be rude and unprofessional and basically violate the unwritten rules of my mouth. This wasn’t the first time I found myself morally strained by what was asked of me at work. This wasn’t the first time I felt humiliated. This wasn’t even the first time I found myself involuntarily dry heaving over a garbage can seconds before having to go live on air. But it was the first time it mattered. And I had no idea why.
Earlier that evening, I had arrived at the arena on a high. The night before I had starred in the main event of the show. In one of my character’s darkest moments, she reacted to a lack of attention with a feigned attempt at self-harm.
At the close of the show, in front of thousands of fans, I stood on the top rope of the ring, looking down onto a propped-up table eight feet below. My body language conveyed that I was about to throw myself through the table, like a suicidal cry for attention. It was some heavy stuff, and I was blown away by the balls of steel the writing staff displayed by going through with such a dark story. Of course, at the start of the day, the original version had me successfully crashing through the table—an idea I was so stoked about—but by showtime, in an attempt to be slightly more responsible to our PG audience, the plans had hastily changed.
When I climbed to the top rope and looked at certain devastation, CM Punk came to my rescue and stopped me from hurting myself. As he tried to talk me down, I grabbed the back of his head and punched him with my snaggletooth while forcing a kiss on him.
I then pulled away, revealed an adorably evil smile, and pushed him to the ground and through the table. It was deliciously twisted. The episode closed on my maniacal face enjoying the carnage I had wrought.
Punk was a mentor to me at work. My first day on the road, as I walked into catering, with the same insecurity and nerves of a new student walking into the school cafeteria, he had called me over. I had never met him, only heard stories of his being a mercurial curmudgeon, so naturally I was surprised. The simple act of inviting me to sit down at his table alleviated so much stress of finding somewhere to fit in on the road.
“Let me know if anyone fucks with you, kiddo.”
“Kiddo” was an annoying moniker he gave me to remind me that I was about a decade younger than him. In turn, I gave him the nickname “Grandpa.” While I competed on NXT, he provided sage advice and encouragement. He delivered color commentary for the show and always made sure to “put me over” or speak fondly of me, while he ruthlessly mocked the rest of the girls. I think he was indignant about the fact that while the other commentators audibly drooled over the rest of the contestants, they would only mention that I was diminutive and scrawny. His words were in support of different kinds of beauty and it let me know that he had my back.
When we started working together,
our dynamic became that of a big brother and little sister. We had practically nothing in common besides a love of comic books and a belief that marriage was a ridiculous societal expectation, but we could talk for hours. We would seek advice from each other about the people we were in relationships with and share horrifying dating stories. Through these stories we learned each other’s flaws, mistakes, and embarrassing pasts. But neither of us went running in the other direction. We apparently didn’t scare so easy.
He would bring me Starbucks coffee every day at work and mock me for being a chubster who always wanted extra whipped cream. This would soon be how he listed me in his phone: “Extra Whip.” Because as he explained, it represented how I was smart and feisty and also kind of a cow. He remained listed as “Grandpa” in mine.
When we realized that we both had a bipolar parent, it connected us even more strongly. If I needed someone to talk to when I was frustrated about still having to support my family while trying to save money for my future, Phil would meet me at a Denny’s at 2 a.m. and listen. When I was frustrated with work, I would call him from my hotel and he would listen to me whine over the phone for hours.
Our ability to trust in each other made sense. We had both grown up in impoverished, chaotic homes and used wrestling to pull ourselves out. We had both spent the majority of our adult lives trying to undo the handiwork of our parents. We put our guards up around most people, having learned the hard way that not everyone could be trusted. We were both independent after earning everything for ourselves in life. Neither of us was prototypical, and though we were underdogs, we came out on top.
As our friendship grew closer, we simultaneously began fighting a lot. The most trivial things would send us at each other’s throats. “Why did you leave the building without saying good-bye to me?” he once furiously texted before ignoring me for a week. But no matter what random nonsense was causing us to fight like cats and substantially older cats, if I needed a shoulder to cry on, the spat would be dropped and he would be there for me.
Having to smash my face against his on-screen was awkward as all hell. The first time, it really did feel like I was about to kiss my brother. But it was quick and simple, and before I knew it, I had thrown him through a table, so I felt fine.
The next day at work, I was feeling pretty confident about having closed the show the night before with such a dramatic, high-octane scene. I had already kissed a plethora of guys on-screen and figured that must’ve been the last. I was also really intrigued to see where the story would be headed. Running into one of the writers, I got the vibe I was about to be disappointed.
“Are we doing anything fun today?” I hopefully asked.
“Depends on your definition of fun,” he hesitantly responded.
“Oh, God. Do I have to kiss a guy again?”
“Not exactly,” he said. A sense of relief began to sweep over me until “You’ll be kissing two. One after the other.”
Your move, Mono.
While waiting in Gorilla, the control room situated directly outside the on-camera entrance to the ring, Phil could see my trepidation. The story called for me to break up a fight between Bryan and Phil, who had both previously ignored me. First I was to plant one on Bryan, and as Phil walked away, stop him by laying one on him. For those keeping score, I am somebody’s daughter.
“You look like you’re gonna throw up. I’m not that gross, kiddo.” Phil was relishing how much I wanted to set myself ablaze.
“I’m fine; I’m always nervous before I go out there. But, yes. You are gross.” Is this what having a stroke feels like?
“It’ll be okay. Just make sure you rock my world.”
“You’re not funny and you’re not a nice person.” I desperately tried to turn my attention to someone else, anyone else. I successfully began a conversation with a writer, when Phil leaned in, interrupting.
“You never know, you could be the one.”
I froze, suddenly out of comebacks.
—
The segment had gone off flawlessly. The Bryan smooch was out of the way and now I only needed to quickly smash my face on Phil’s again, like we had been clearly instructed. Specifically, Phil was supposed to stand with his arms extended as if I were a sexual predator and he were screaming for help.
I held my breath as I ran after an exiting Phil. He scratched his head and began walking up the ramp, his back to me. Dismounting from the ring apron to the mat below, I was sure my knees would buckle beneath me. As he moved farther away, I reached out and grabbed his wrist. Using his arm as a pivot, I swung his body around, forcing us to be face-to-face. His character was frustrated and confused and began to ask me what it was I wanted his attention for. I lunged forward, pulling his face to my minuscule height, and placed my lips on his, shutting him up. And then something bad happened.
We’re kissing! We’re not supposed to be kissing! my brain screamed at my body.
I steadied myself by grabbing his neck and considered pulling away to save the integrity of the segment. Just get out now, it’ll be sort of what they wanted. OK, one…two…is that his fucking tongue?!
There is an unwritten rule in on-screen kisses: no goddamn tongue. Tongue makes the moment too intimate, too real. For a moment I felt violated. Then I was infuriated. Then I was immediately very okay with it. Phil put his arm around my waist and pulled me tight to his body. I clawed at his shoulder.
Every single person in that building disappeared.
It was the best kiss of my entire life. What was supposed to be an unreciprocated peck was now bordering on smut, a hard-core make-out session, going twenty seconds overtime—live on air. We attempted to stop, and for a moment you can see us begin to pull apart, but hover just a second too long, before Phil adds one last tug of my lip. Years later, I let him know that was my favorite part.
When we pulled apart, I was certain my entire body was now equal parts human and equal parts a Jell-O-like substance. I felt the overwhelming urge to run as far and as fast as I could. I stared at Phil and his smart-ass “oops” smile for what felt like seven days, but was actually three seconds, and got the fuck out of there. I moved out of the shot so unexpectedly fast the director didn’t even have a chance to get the shots he needed. And I ended up having to run back out onstage to let them get a shot of me smiling and patting myself on the back while inside I was setting myself on fire.
We left the editors scrambling, having to desperately cut to random shots of Daniel’s face to avoid accidentally distributing a porno to our PG audience. Our hands roamed a bit too freely, and tongues were nauseatingly visible left and right. In fact, when the second airing came Friday night, there were significant camera-angle changes and cuts to attempt to scar fewer children.
“Oh my God. No, AJ! Eww, you liked it?” Celeste seemed revolted and amused all at once.
“No! Eww! Shut up!” I lied while she cackled and I recalled that weird moment behind the curtain.
You never know, you could be the one.
—
For the next two years, we went on dating other people, supporting those relationships while not realizing what we really wanted, being a mentor and student, and acting like brother and sister. I think we both saw a possible forever in the other and ran screaming in the opposite direction. But after living in denial, fighting all the time, my character proposing to his and then agreeing to marry someone else, and after two years of the world’s most bizarre foreplay, one day Phil and I just said “fuck it,” and we jumped headfirst into a serious relationship. There was so much history between us it was like starting a book in chapter 12. Understandably, those around us were shocked at how fast everything seemed to move after that. But for us, it felt like we had waited a lifetime to find our way to each other.
A few weeks into dating, he got my lips tattooed on him. One month in, he asked me what my dream wedding would be. A few months later, we were married. Our wedding took place under string lights at home, on a Friday the thirteenth. We
were surrounded by candles, black roses, and ten family members. In my vows, I thanked Phil for having “an ass that won’t quit” in front of a reverend and my father, and then we high-fived. And one day, if I forget to take my pill, we can tell our child that after our first kiss, Mommy put Daddy through a table.
And the rest of our story is just for us.
So how did I end up believing in marriage? I’m still not entirely sure I do. I certainly will never be one of those people who judgmentally preach to their single friends about settling down already. Because, honestly, marriage is not for everyone. It is not the prize your life should be building toward just because that’s how fairy tales end. It pains me to witness how much stock some women put in marriage. As if they will only find happiness once someone puts a ring on their finger. As women, our life goal should not be to belong to somebody else. Marriage should be the cherry on top of our accomplishments, not the whole sundae. I had made a list of goals, and marriage was not on it. No man was going to complete me. I was a complete person all on my own.
When Robbie got married to his beautiful wife, Dayara, and had twin daughters, seeing the monumental change in him was inspiring. To witness him create the stable and healthy home he never had made me realize there were virtues in beginning your own family. Creating your own place in the world. When Erica, having wasted her time on numerous asshole boyfriends, married Ro, a gentle, caring, dedicated soul who also happened to be a chick, I realized that love can be unexpected. It will profoundly change you.
When my mother chose to not come to my wedding, I was reminded that sometimes love does not conquer all. I don’t know why Janet refused the invitation. I offered to pay for the trip and hotel stay, as well as having paid for the small wedding and my dress myself, so I knew it wasn’t the money. I understood she had grown fearful of flying, but she had often talked about having plans to fly back to the States. So what made those trips more feasible? More worthwhile? She told me Dad could represent them both, and I accepted that as some part of her disorder getting the best of her and holding her back. I need to believe that. I love my mother and I forgive her. For everything. But we are still broken. There are so many “normal,” traditional, arguably expected mother-daughter moments girls can take for granted, moments I never got to have. Moments, even as a grown woman, I still ache for like a child. I am jealous of every girl whose mother taught her about becoming a woman. I am jealous of every girl who got to cry to her mother when a boy broke her heart. I am painfully jealous of every girl who got to have her mother at her goddamn wedding. That is the moment I mourn the most. That is the moment that taught me that no love comes with guarantees.
Crazy Is My Superpower: How I Triumphed by Breaking Bones, Breaking Hearts, and Breaking the Rules Page 21
