Monday, June 27, 2016

Missing: One Voice

It’s been said that 93% of all communication is non-verbal. However, after recently conducting an impromptu scientific experiment on the matter, I can now confirm that whoever came up with that statistic is either a liar-liar-pants-on-fire or a person who never lost their voice for a semi-extended period of time.

It all started on a Saturday, when my immune system, which obviously had been up late partying the night before and wanted to sleep in, didn’t hear its alarm go off and never reported for duty. Unable to protect myself, a virus of some sort quickly descended upon me, leaving me not only exhausted, but also with a sore throat and a fading voice. Things quickly went downhill, and by the early evening I’d been rendered nearly mute, to the point where anything I did manage to say sounded like it was coming out of an 85-year old chain-smoker who was gargling marbles.

Cursing my lazy immune system, which had since woken up and sheepishly apologized for its woeful lack of vigilance, I spent most of Sunday resting and recuperating, which was helpful in that by evening I felt good enough to resume day-to-day activities, but which unfortunately did nothing to restore my golden baritone.

I need next to mention that I was in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan at the time, and also that Monday was my day to drive back to the Twin Cities. Now, while this may seem like the perfect opportunity for vocal rest, you must also consider the “Singing Along to the Radio” factor. I mean, what’s the point of driving for 7 hours straight if you can’t bellow out mournful country songs with an intensity that would frighten most normal people? Needless to say, the drive was very frustrating. I tried to listen to music, but being unable to harmonize with the likes of George Strait and Merle Haggard soon turned me to talk radio, which quickly made me hate the world and everybody in it. My only solace was junk food, which propelled me through Wisconsin while expanding my waistline by a good several inches. Feeling the effects of extreme-chocolate-overload, I then somehow made my way through rural Minnesota and back home to the Twin Cities.

On Tuesday morning I started what I’ve since coined the Woohoo! test. Upon waking up, in order to assess the high end of my vocal register, I tried to let loose with a hearty “woohoo!” It was, however, a complete failure, and I produced almost no sound. Disheartened, I headed to work, where I labored with a raspy, broken voice that made me feel like I was going through adolescence again. Soon I’d picked up the nickname “Whispers,” and finally, by mid-afternoon, my voice had given out completely, leaving me no choice but to communicate via hand-gestures, such as the classic “thumbs-up,” along with the always entertaining “finger pistols.”

My updated name tag. Don’t ask about the Dennis Eckersley card.

On Wednesday morning the Woohoo! test again failed miserably. However, the deeper end of my voice had begun to come back, which happily allowed me to sing the “Giddy Up, Oom Poppa Oom Poppa Mow Mow” part of “Elvira” in the shower. Alas, in a cruel turn of fate, my nose decided that then was the perfect time to start running profusely, and a nagging cough had also begun to manifest itself. Too stubborn to admit defeat, I spent the day at work being Annoying Sniffly Guy Who Should Have Stayed Home But Didn’t Because He Doesn’t Consider Anybody But Himself. (Yeah I know, I hate that guy too.)

Luckily, the rest of the week went a lot better, and the Woohoo! test progressed each morning until my voice had completely returned. The “Whispers” name tag was taken down the next week, and things have since returned pretty much to normal.

Overall, going for roughly four days without the ability to easily communicate via vocalization was much more difficult than I ever would have expected. While I consider myself to be a fairly quiet person, there were still many times when I wanted to contribute to conversations but didn’t, mainly because my ridiculously raspy voice was almost unintelligible, not to mention a bit embarrassing. At one point I was trying to book a hotel over the phone for an upcoming vacation, and being barely able to speak made it an exercise in silliness:

Hotel Guy: “Okay, can you give me your name?”
Me: “K**t I****s*n.”
Hotel Guy: “Did you say, Dirt Eyes In One?”
Me: “No! “Ku*t I*****on!”
Hotel Guy: “Cute as a Lion?”
Me: “No!”
Hotel Guy: “I’m just going to put you down as Guy Jones.”
Me: “Ok.”

The moral of the story? Don’t lose your voice. However, if you do, please make sure to seek me out. I really want to pass on the Whispers nickname.

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