If I Only Had a Nap

You know that kind of tired that lives deep in your bones? The kind that feels less like “I need a nap” and more like “my soul just ran a marathon in Oz”? Yeah. That’s me. Right now.

After two days of full-on flailing as the Scarecrow (and yes, I do mean flailing—there was straw, there was sweat, there were questionable knee sounds), I am officially made of hay and regret. My body feels like it got picked up by a tornado, spun through a musical, and then politely dropped in a field somewhere outside Munchkinland. Twice.

We wrapped our shows, I jumped in the car, and made the long, winding five-hour trek back to San Diego. Rolled in around 10 p.m., thinking, Surely, I’ll fall into bed like a log in a lullaby. LOL. My brain had other plans. Apparently it wanted to relive every quick change, missed cue, and audience reaction. Meanwhile, my legs decided to do an interpretive dance of “We’re Still on Stage, Right?”

So today? I gave in. Did absolutely nothing. Committed to the art of horizontal living. Except, surprise—doing nothing while your muscles are staging a rebellion is not quite as relaxing as you'd think. Every limb has filed a grievance. Even my eyelashes are mad.

Tomorrow’s goal? Unpack the car. Maybe. If the Yellow Brick Road doesn’t start spinning again.

But all that said—I wouldn’t trade it. Playing the Scarecrow again was a whirlwind of chaos, sweat, laughter, and backstage bonding. I’m grateful. Just… floppy. Very, very floppy.