Do you ever get tired, and it’s not the sort of tired that you can crush? Some days, I get back to my bedroom, and all I want to do is pause my brain. If only I could just be someone somewhere else for a split second. I’ve suffered from this desire for dreamy paralysis forever. I’ve tried many solutions—going for a walk, quitting coffee, quality time with pettable pets—to very little avail. But I am delighted to inform you of the one thing that always snaps me out, distracts me, deters me: the theater.
For years, theater has allowed me to shut off my brain momentarily. To embrace the lives of others, to become everyone but myself. Across the span of my community theater career, I have played many roles—mermaids, munchkins, a variety of animals—and in each role I have found the purest of distractions.
Over the years, I have developed a system of working the practice of theater into my everyday life. When I become bogged down, or erratic, or questionably antsy, I open up my favorite plays, and I take on a brand new role. Through those pages, I am utterly transported. Theater doesn’t require an audience; it can be a purely solitary task. A reflection. An escape.
This week, I want to provide you with an opportunity to intentionally become someone (or something) else. Please turn off your brain. Just for a moment. I promise it won’t hurt. It might even be a little fun.
P.S. Please read these out loud. That’s a big part of the fun. They are monologues after all (and they’ll only take one minute).
A monologue in which you get to become a contented horse
I am wandering through meadows. I am eating. I am enjoying what I eat. It is green, lush cud. I am not green, but I am lush, full of life, full of grass. I look to my left and see the sun is beginning to fall. I see a flock of wild horses scamper across the distant glen. They look supremely free. And comfortable in their skin. You might think I want that, the companionship the other horses have, the freedom to frolic. But the truth is I love my patch of grass, and I love my painted gate, and I love the sound of the wind, how I can listen to it from the same crack in the barn’s wall every single day.
What is there in life, if not the sights you get the privilege to see grow, the friends you watch strain and shift? Why strive for newness when the old tune sounds so sweet? It is old, but it is not unchanging. It is old, but it isn’t dull.
A monologue in which you get to become a hyena at a girl-you-only-sort-of-know’s birthday party
When I go to parties, I like to sit in the corner with my legs crossed. And to make myself look less ridiculously alone, I like to laugh boisterously at everything I see. When people look at me, or notice me, or ask me what’s so funny, I say something cute like “nothing!” or ask them why the chicken crossed the road.
I don’t win many friends this way, but I feel like a brief moment of human interaction is worth my eternal embarrassment. I am always embarrassed. Hahahaha. No, really, I am. I am a diagnosed pool of embarrassment. I cannot change it. I cannot accept myself. Instead, I treat my embarrassment like a pesky gnat. Uncatchable. But if I try my very hardest, I can pretend, if even just for a moment, that he isn’t there. Hahahah.
Hyenas don’t actually laugh, you know. It’s actually a rhythmic groan.
A monologue in which you get to become a distinguished young lady who has a butler named Calvin
Calvin! Oh, Calvin!
Could you bring my tea to the parlor? I’m feeling exhausted. I’m feeling misty-eyed… Calvin, can you hear me? I said BRING ME MY TEA! Calvin exhausts me. Waiting exhausts me. I want things when I want them; I don’t like to be kept waiting. I like my tea how I like my men. Readily available! Ha ha.
Calvin says I shouldn’t make jokes like that. Too crass. I always tell him that crass humor requires intellect. That unfunny people are also unintelligent people. He always frowns when I say this, a sheepish, ill-fitting frown. He’s never made a woman laugh before. Not more than polite giggles. Never a hardy laugh, especially not from me!
Later today we are having a tea party, one with all the other girls from school. Calvin is serving scones. And cream. A mixed berry jam. A hardy porridge. Oh, I can’t wait. I love porridge. With three helpings of brown sugar and a bit of flaky chocolate on top. It is divine. Not because Calvin prepared it. No. It is divine because it is mine!
Oh, Calvin? Do I hear him calling me? Ah yes. He says the girls are beginning to arrive. I must run. I must. My scones beckon. Do stop by for tea again next week!
Thank you for playing pretend with me and indulging in my obnoxious tendency to monologue. If you had fun reading these, or felt yourself catching a fickle breath, I encourage you to perform for yourselves a little bit more, take a break from being you for just a moment each day. It can be a delightful escape.
