I, too, was unimpressed with Trish Stratus. She couldn't speak, her face was misshapen and her rack was compressed to such a critical degree that just looking at her promoted airway restriction. But she had those awesome pants.

While the process of discovery is still not entirely clear to me, I believe I woke up to the magic of Trish's pants because I was so desperate to look anywhere but at that face, that stifling boobery and oh God, I forgot to mention the hats. More than anything else, I hated those cowboy hats. They were already out of style two years ago. Can you believe she still wears them? You have to admire that girl's persistence. Yet I get ahead of myself.

Anyway, back to the pants. Fantastic pants, they were. Each week I thrilled to see what amazing innovations in spangly stretchy metallic fabric Trish would unveil, and I would covet those pants to the point of madness. Then came the boots. Those boots, I should say. You know the ones.

See Our Zed: ROBERT CULP IS OUTTA CONTROL KIM
See Our Zed: STOP THE DAMN SHOW
See Our Zed: THE CARNAGE
See Our Zed: THE CARNAGE

I started looking back through old emails and AIM logs at CRZ's suggestion to find something to build an anniversary piece around, but I'm both venomously selfish and unwilling to accept that they would be of interest to anyone other than ourselves. These exchanges fill me with untold joy and all I could think while I was digging through them was oh, awesome, and then I just got misty and forgot why I was there in the first place.

See Our Zed: COLUMBO JUST ENTERED A CLOSET
See Our Zed: HAAAAHAHAHAHA
See Our Zed: A CLOSET
See Our Zed: A CLOSET KIM
See Our Zed: HAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I think it might make more sense if I go back to the pants. Pants first, then boots. That's generally the order of things.

Trish? I still couldn't stand her, but her pants just got more and more excellent. Gold and silver and purple and holographic weirdness, and then came the day she wore a pair of jet-encrusted platform boots and I was flabbergasted. Even more than the pants, I wanted the boots. And she could wrestle in them! Astounding. I think she had a silver pair too, but the black ones ruled.

So obviously, as time went on, I pretty much stopped paying attention to all else but what Trish was wearing week after week, and everything was hunky dory. It was like some marvelous drug that made all the suck tolerable, if not invisible. And somewhere in that foggy mess, Trish even became a pretty good wrestler! Give a girl a good wardrobe and anything's possible. Except for the hats. Ooh, I hate those hats.

With all the complaining and groaning and woe-is-me whining and carting around of the sackfuls of rage and whatnot, little did I know that everyone who ever said just concentrate on the things you love and everything will be okay was exactly right.