Yesterday I ushered for a play at the newly renovated Ford’s Theatre (which, according to the website, creepily markets itself as the “House Where Lincoln Died”). The play was called “The Heavens Are Hung in Black,” and was about Lincoln’s life from around when his son Will died until the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation. I did a great job as an usher, taking people to the wrong side of the balcony and acting as though I knew all sorts of cool facts about the Theatre. The best part of the experience, though, was that I realized that Abe Lincoln and I are soulmates. We’re basically the same person.
The evidence? He’s awkwardly tall and gangly. So I am. (I don’t have Marfan Syndrome but whatever.) He loves beards, and so do I. In the play, he makes a comment about falling asleep at the theater as I was falling asleep at the theater. He’s a bad dancer. I am too. He loves nightgowns; I’m wearing one right now. He cries a lot, and I totally cry like once a day.
The point is: I would have made a killer Mrs. Lincoln, and it’s simply too bad that Honest Abe and I weren’t around in the same century to have a passionate love affair and very, very tall children.
[Posted by Mallory]