There’s something deeply human about watching two men in spandex scream at each other while pretending to fight. It’s not just the spectacle—it’s the way it forces us to confront the absurdity of performance itself. I’ve spent years hiking through forests, staring at the sky, and questioning whether anything in this world matters. Yet here I was, in a small Pennsylvania town, watching a man in a neon mask leap off a table and land in a pile of confetti, and suddenly I was more engaged than I’d been in weeks. What does that say about us? What does it say about the way we seek meaning in the most obvious of fictions?
Professional wrestling has always been a paradox. It’s a sport that isn’t a sport, a drama that isn’t real, a narrative that’s written in advance but performed with the intensity of a life-or-death struggle. And yet, it’s thriving. The crowds at these events aren’t just there for the physicality—they’re there for the story. The way the referee’s hand flails like a marionette, the way the crowd’s roar turns into a collective gasp when the heel finally gets his comeuppance. It’s a reminder that humans are wired for drama, even when we know it’s staged. Personally, I think that’s why it resonates with people who’ve spent too long in the wilderness, where the only real drama is the weather and the ache in your legs.
Let’s talk about the Airbnb incident. That place was a time capsule. George Washington portraits, a Victrola, and the faint scent of mothballs. It felt like stepping into a museum of Americana, but with a side of questionable acoustics. I spent hours fiddling with the record player, playing blues that sounded like they were recorded in a haunted house. It was a bizarre contrast to the raw simplicity of hiking, where the only entertainment is the sound of your own breath and the crunch of gravel underfoot. But here’s the thing: both experiences are forms of escapism. One is a curated nostalgia trip, the other is a self-imposed exile from society. What makes this particularly fascinating is how they both force you to confront the artifice of your surroundings. The Airbnb was a joke, but it was a joke with a purpose—to make you feel like you were living in a different era. The trail was a joke too, but it was a joke on yourself, a daily reminder that you’re not as tough as you think.
Then there was the wrestling match. It was like watching a medieval joust with better lighting and worse choreography. The crowd was a mix of locals, tourists, and people who probably didn’t know what they were getting into. And yet, they were all there. Why? Because humans are creatures of ritual. We need structure, even when it’s ridiculous. The wrestling match was a microcosm of life: a series of scripted conflicts, a predetermined outcome, and a crowd that’s complicit in the illusion. What this really suggests is that we crave order, even when we’re surrounded by chaos. It’s why we watch sports, why we follow politics, why we binge reality TV. We need someone to tell us what to feel, even if it’s all fake.
But let’s not forget the deeper irony. The author of this story is someone who’s spent months on the Appalachian Trail, surviving on trail mix and the kindness of strangers. And yet, the moment they step into a town square, they’re drawn to the most over-the-top form of entertainment imaginable. It’s a testament to the power of contrast. When you’re out in the wilderness, everything feels amplified—the wind, the silence, the weight of your pack. But in a town, everything feels... artificial. The wrestling match was a perfect metaphor for that. It was a reminder that we’re always performing, even when we think we’re just existing. The only difference is that on the trail, the performance is silent. In the town, it’s loud and colorful and utterly ridiculous.
So what does this all mean? It means that we’re all just trying to find meaning in a world that doesn’t give us much to work with. Whether it’s through a wrestling match, a hike, or a dusty Airbnb, we’re looking for stories to attach ourselves to. The key is to realize that the stories we choose—whether they’re real or not—are the ones that define us. And if you take a step back and think about it, maybe that’s the real lesson here: life is a performance, and we’re all just trying to get a standing ovation.
