Pointing an imperious finger,
I direct my brother to his ‘Reserved’ seat on the couch
where he is to watch and admire in silent awe until the end,
at which point he will shower us with all due praise and applause.

After giving a brief yet resplendent introduction,
I retreat behind the curtain in order to prepare with my associate
for our first show at this modern and illustrious theatre.
Elegant 90's bridesmaid gowns twice as tall as ourselves and thrice as wide
hang from our gangly bodies,
held up by their hanger straps, safety pins, and determination.
But despite their capacious fits,
they’re successful in hiding our grass stained jeans and soccer jerseys,
transforming scrawny girls into elite nobility.
Finishing off the look is a generous application of glamorous blue eyeshadow.
The show begins.

Pale green dress dragging on the carpet and half inch, cream colored pumps
raising me to new heights,
I deliver my first lines with utmost clarity and refinement:
“Buttacup, doo come out, dah-ling, you are going to the palace too-deey!”
From stage left enters my dear friend, co-lead, and fellow rising star, Maura,
responding believably, as only one so emotionally connected to their character can,
“But I don’t have anything to wearrrrr!”.

Interrupted at appropriate times for necessary
and unnecessary wardrobe changes, the play progressed,
and I transitioned from matronly British aristocracy
to Her Royal Highness the Queen,
and finally slid into the role of His Majesty the Crown Prince
who had a curious and unexplained propensity for speaking with a Southern drawl.
Each part was played with utter sincerity and heartfelt conviction.
A paper plate was substituted for the pea my mother wouldn’t let us put between the cushions – 
a unique twist on a worn-out story that has had critics raving ever since.

Finally
the play was at a close and the curtain was dropped with some assistance by
two actresses deigning to assist their nonexistent stage hands.
As we stepped out from behind the set to greet our fans and accept our synthetic flowers,
we were met with thunderous applause
thanks to a certain “play” button on a subtly placed CD player.

Our audience,
so obviously entranced
had wandered off at some point to go ponder the deep questions posed by our rendition.

Soon all that was left of our critically acclaimed, five-star performance
was a somewhat crushed paper plate
and two pairs of vibrantly blue eyelids.

Again in our jeans,
we ran outside, galloping about the cul de sac,
chasing each other with pine cone grenades and stick swords as we became
G.I. Janes –
blue eyelids forgotten.