Hawaii, a State in America
Ronda Rousey got married on Saturday.
After an engagement to Travis Browne that mostly saw her career tumble and tumble and tumble, Rousey said, “I do” to the UFC heavyweight in a Hawaiian ceremony. Or a ceremony in Hawaii. I’m not sure if there’s a difference. There were no reports of Browne beating teenagers.
The two brought even along a photographer. I was all set to mock this, to call it pretentious and self-congratulatory, but then I remembered weddings have photographers. People Magazine seemed very excited there was a camera present, for whatever reason.
I’m glad the photog managed to snap a selfie with the bride, we all needed that – oh, fuck it. I can’t even muster up real snark.
I hope they’re happy and it works out. It’s easy to mock Browne and his history of domestic violence allegations, and that Rousey herself has a history of picking the wrong guy, but life is too short and too shitty and so I want this to work.
Want may be a bit strong. Rooting for? Would be moderately pleased and break out into a knowing smile as I get my grandkids ice cream cones before we head back to the summer cabin in Northern Minnesota in 40 years when I overhear the radio say they’re celebrating their anniversary? Yeah. That one.
Granted, it is her wedding day so I’d hope she’d be all smiles but she seemed happy and her smile real. Despite it all, I think she had a messed up childhood and just wants to be loved. I can’t fault her for that. I hope you have lots of babies, grow fat and happy, and ride off into the sunset, Ronda.
(Fine. Rousey or McGregor: I wonder who got hit harder on Saturday.)