Tough chicks scare and intrigue me.
I wouldn’t have recognized Ronda Rousey if you put me in a cage with her and told me to run for my life. I didn’t know anything about UFC fighting, other than I get impatient when my husband channel-surfs and lingers more than one second on a screen displaying what looks like tough, muscled men in bathing suits punching, kicking and wrestling each other.
However, when my husband, who was reading the newspaper, mentioned to me that it only took Ronda Rousey 34 seconds to knock out her opponent in a big Ultimate Fighting Championship match, my ears perked up, I noted her name, glanced at the newspaper article, and secretly wondered how she got so tough.
Biker chicks used to scare me, too. I ran into some when I was a kid many years ago. My family had just set up our tent at a campground in California and was probably getting supper ready when a noisy group of bearded, black leather-clad toughs came roaring in on their choppers. I don’t know if they were Hells Angels or another Harley-riding gang that generally serve as a menace to society, but their presence alarmed me.
How terrifying it was for a young, impressionable innocent like me to see such mean-looking thugs, who appeared to be a far more potent threat than the few lunch money extortionists at school, who up to that point, represented the only bullies I had ever seen in real life. Those biker dudes looked like they could probably whip out a gun, knife or samurai sword in a heartbeat to make a point.
The tattooed biker chicks, who looked just as mean as their bearded, thuggish boyfriends, were the ones who really intrigued me.
How does a girl get so tough, I wondered?
I thought I was tough, but only because I was more a tomboy who liked to swing on monkey bars and play cowboys and indians with my big brother more than I liked to play with Barbie dolls, although I did that, too.
I didn’t understand how a girl could go through such a dramatic transformation that one day she would get angry-looking tattoos on her arms, wear black leather and basically go through life with a perpetual scowl, looking like she would welcome the opportunity to cut anyone who got in her way.
My only encounter with one of the biker chicks at the campground occurred at the water faucet. My mother had asked me to fill a pan with water and in doing so, I had to venture close to one of the tough chicks standing by the restroom, likely waiting for someone to come out.
Because I was always taught to be polite, I ventured a small smile when I was in close enough proximity to possibly be perceived as being in her “turf.”
I can’t say she smiled back because I really don’t remember. She could have smiled, scoffed. snarled at me or ignored me. I don’t know. All I know for sure is that she didn’t kill me, which I thought was rather fortunate.
So a long time ago, I decided that even though I didn’t understand tough chicks, maybe they were okay as long as they didn’t hurt anyone.
But if I ever end up in a cage with Ronda Rousey, I’ll definitely run for my life.
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photo credit: Ronda Rousey – Bethe Correia – UFC 190 – Living Sensical? via photopin (license)
photo credit: Custom V-Twin via photopin (license)