Welcome to Day Four without much of a voice. It left late Wednesday, after a work outing in Central Park, and ever since I've been barking like Kathleen Turner with croup. On the weekdays, when the lives and livelihoods of colleagues hinged on my every word, it was actually a boon. I couldn't manage much beyond a squeak and huffle, so everyone had to lean in, as if I were just about to finally divulge where I had hidden the nerve gas. Followed by the projectile coughing. And the collateral damage.
(Oh, right. Ha! I just remembered that work now knows about my blog. Hello, work! So nice to have you. No, there is no nerve gas anywhere on the facility. That I know of, anyway. I mean, if you have your own nerve gas or some other deadly pathogen lying around, that's your business! Vive la péstilence!)
Having no voice has the doubly salubrious effect of controlling my mood. Raising your voice is usually a symptom of agitation, so if your body knows it can't yell, it's useless to want to yell. It's logic! Vive la contrapositif!
Of course, weekends are a different matter entirely. If, for example, your son's tee-ball game is rained out, and a bunch of drenched kids and parents have found temporary shelter at the parking garage across the street, and every single child takes turns standing in the way of the light beam that when broken sets off a piercing siren that dissolves your innards, it would be great to tell that child, gently but firmly, to please move before my liquefied pancreas leaks out my ... back door.
(Hello once again, work!)
Time is of the essence, as I have but two weeks to nurse my voice back to its normal, stentorian velvethood. Father's Day is coming up, and on June 18 Kristen Chase will be interviewing me, presumably to discuss what it's like to be the only mommy blogger with back hair. Which is fine, because I'm sure she has some great tips about shaving.