Christina "Gucci mama" Rosenberger

HEIGHT: 5'10"

WEIGHT: "a lady never tells"

CLASS: paperweight

SPECIAL MOVES: THE hair toss,

the icy "i have those shoes" glare,

the fox trot

I had a sneaking suspicion that I would be the only girl in the Fleet Center who blow-dried her hair before she went to see steroid-filled men pretend to mortally wound one another wearing uni-suits at WWF's Smackdown!. I even contemplated leaving it wet, but my vanity, and the idea that one of these wrestlers might be cute, got the better of me. So I blow-dried my hair, put on the most non-descript outfit I could think of, and headed to the Fleet Center armed with my mace and two days of beginner Tae Bo videos.

Now, I should preface this whole endeavor by stating that before Dec. 6, 1999, the only WWF in my vocabulary stood for the World Wild Life Fund. You know, that nice place that helps you save the unfortunate sooty terns and invertebrate spawning grounds in Tortuga and sends you posters of pandas? But since I have no idea where Tortoga is and had nothing else to do on a Tuesday night, I figured I'd go check out this other WWF.

I was assigned to go with Nate Gray, a first-year. Well, a tall first-year. That was okay. I was a self-sufficient woman, and I had my mace. No one was going to mess with me. And besides, I wasn't convinced that these wrestlers did anything but strut anyway.

We arrived at the Fleet Center an hour early, and tickets were being scalped outside the T station for hundreds of dollars. Hundreds? I began to get nervous. Hundreds of dollars is a lot of money. I counted no less than five stretch limousines in a line by the curb. These people were obviously high rollers. But all the limousines were white. And in there was a 33 RV parked directly in the middle of the line. Garth Brooks would have been proud. This crowd had its share of card-carrying members of the American Honky-Tonk Bar Association.

I kept walking, head up, eyes alert, when some big thug came up behind Nate and told him to watch out, so I didn't get jumped. I didn't bother to ask what exactly "getting jumped" meant in this context, instead using a few well placed elbows to get myself into the safety of the lobby.

I soon learned that maybe I should have stayed outside. The stink of cheap cologne, and I mean really cheap, was combined with a heavy alcoholic stench that hung over the room in such a thick fog that I had trouble breathing. Men were shouting all over the place, as the doors were late in opening. Even the Salvation Army Man had earphones on. I decided to check our tickets and see where we were sitting. First row, floor. I looked at Nate. He was practically giggling with glee, managing to sputter "five-feet from the ring!" I told him that I was going back outside to scalp my ticket, then going to the Prudential to buy a new holiday dress with my profit, and would meet him at the Park Street T stop at 11. I thought conceding the 2,000 words of my article for life and limb was a fair trade. Nate was still grinning.

But, as usual, my curiosity got the better of me and I settled into my seat, which was in spitting distance from the ring. (I only know this because some wrestling brute with tattoos that spread continuously from his right pinky to his left decided to demonstrate. I wanted to ask him if getting all those tattoos had hurt, but was afraid of being spit on again.) The first fight involved someone in yellow leather (or pleather? I couldn't be sure, even with our proximity) pants fighting a Dracula-esque character with fangs and blood spurting out of his mouth. Dracula's girlfriend then came out, much to the delight of the 18,000 in attendance and to my disgust.

Plastic surgery, we all know, has been around for quite a while. And honestly, this woman's chest was an embarrassment to the profession. Yes, it was large. Yes, all 17,963 men in the audience didn't seem to notice anything else. But it looked like a color chart for cheap housepaint! Her face looked like a Cover-girl light beige, her neck a "Perfectly Peach," her lower neck a "Truly Tan," her clavicle area a "Trendy Toupe," the first three inches of her chest a "Light Chocolate Brown" and the next five inches were decidedly an "Earthy Ebony." I'm all for creativity and free expression, but really, there must be some sort of limit on the number of boob jobs one person can get.