Vibe Patrol

In this monologue from the play, “Vibe Patrol”, Lara vents about the chaos of her mother dating a much younger Zumba instructor, while all she really wants is to eat her eggs in peace.

LARA:
My mother is dating her Zumba instructor. His name is Chad.
Yes—Chad.
He’s twenty-seven. I’m thirty-four.
So now, apparently, I have a stepfather who says things like “no cap” and wears shirts that say “Sun’s Out, Guns Out” unironically.

He picked me up from the airport last week in a neon green Jeep Wrangler with a decal that said “Vibe Patrol.”
There were LED lights under the car, Sharon. It looked like a rave on wheels.
In the back seat? Protein powder, vape pens labeled “Peach Haze,” and a ukulele.
A ukulele, Sharon.
Which he plays. Poorly. Loudly. With passion.

And my mom—this woman who used to watch PBS Mysteries and collect antique teacups—now wears crop tops, refers to herself as a “Divine Feminine in transition,” and sends me TikToks of her twerking to “Return of the Mack.”

I came home for brunch. I just wanted eggs.
But instead, Chad puts his hand on mine across the table and goes, “You should come to Zumba with us. You’re holding a lot of tension in your aura.”
MY AURA, Sharon.

You know what I’m holding? Generational trauma, deep emotional fatigue, and the constant dread that I’m one bad day away from becoming her.
But sure. Let me shimmy that out to a Latin beat.

And now he calls me “Big L.”
As in, “Yo Big L, pass the guac.”
I have a Master’s degree.
I manage a team of twelve people.
And I am apparently now “Big L” in a family that drinks green juice and refers to brunch as a “post-yoga nourishment ritual.”

I just want my eggs, Sharon.
Just. My. Damn. Eggs.

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Photo by Douglas Fehr on Unsplash