A-Playful-Path_DeKoven-web

Your Inner Thespian
So there you are, encapsulated, on a nine-hour flight, sitting in a middle seat between two
women, neither of whom expresses any interest in exchanging pleasantries or profundities. In
front of you, a screen promising a mind-numbing selection of proven paths to mind-numbness.
And your headphones aren’t working.
You wait patiently, as one of the fleeing flight attendants suggested, to see if, in fact, once
takeoff has taken off, the sound will sound. Nothing. So you sit, trying to watch a movie you
can’t hear.
And suddenly, from the very wings of your psyche, you hear your inner-thespian, wording
and re-wording what to say should someone happen to respond to the call-light. Yes, the
plane is completely full. Yes, those who were there to respond to your every concern are
fleeting by in a flurry of otherwise-engagement: meal carts, drink carts, carts of freedom from
duty.
And during that hour of vain rehearsal, your inner-thespian, for lack of alternative, entertains
you. You realize, of course, that it is you, doing this to your self, this framing and reframing
of the yet unsaid and unanswered, in the name of something like fun. You, doing this (a tad
compulsively), to keep your self entertained, occupied, otherwise engaged.
You are reminded of other encounters with your inner-thespian, waiting in line at Starbucks,
repeating words like “latte grande, non-fat, extra hot” in preparation for your performance in
that momentary, yet all-consuming Encounter with a Barrista; of other times spent preparing
for your bit part with a waiter as you sit alone in a restaurant, or with a policeman as you sit
in your car reviewing speed limits, or with a nurse as you sit in the waiting room with last
year’s issue of Health Now lying unopened on your lap. You, entertained only by the imagined
voice of your inner-thespian rehearsing words that will, in all likelihood, remain unspoken,
forgotten.
You funny person you, doing this to your self, rehearsing as if you had the leading role. “No
small parts,” you say to your self. You oddly funny, genuinely lovable, inner-theatrical person.
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