“The real Darth Vader wears pink froggy shoes,” she said, her face scrunched, hands on her hips. I’d been in Los Angeles two years at this point, taking classes in Improv comedy for almost all of them, and I had just been rendered speechless by a six-year-old girl. And she was mad. Really mad. I stood there, looking at her through the tiny slits in my Darth Vader helmet, wondering how so much judgement could have made it onto such a tiny face. I started going through the Star Wars rolodex in my head. Vader wears all black, right? Of course Vader wears all black, come on. Pink Froggy Shoes and Lord Vader? What the hell was she talking about?
“Well…” I mustered, thinking “yes, and! yes, and! yes, and!” to myself.
“I left my froggy shoes on the Death Star. The laundry room was pretty slow today…” I cringed behind the mask. There’s no way she’s gonna buy that, I thought.
“Oh.” And with that, she smiled and pranced off towards the birthday cake.
The amazing thing about little kids is that they allow themselves to believe anything. That childlike ability to give over to any imaginary situation is acting. Acting is playing.