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 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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