Silent Musings

Now that I've decided to do this, I realize I am terribly unprepared and in need of something to say. If you knew me, you'd know that is unusual.

I'm quite garrulous, chatty, talkative. Or, I don't know when (or how?) to shut up. On my recent return from my annual vacation to visit Laura in Houston (if a woman wearing an all-the-way-buttoned-up cardigan at one of those country clubs you see on TV ever asked, "Where do you vacation?" I'd say, "Houston, and you?"), I was diagnosed with acute bronchitis, laryngitis, and the inability to cope with either of these illnesses, by my doctor.

I went back to the apartment above the garage with three prescriptions (liquid codeine, anyone?), a persistent wheeze, and no way to produce sounds from my voicebox. Apparently all this was at least in part brought on by the extreme amounts of unholy partying my too-old-for-that-sort-of-thing ass should not have been doing while on vacation. My now suburban self was no longer prepared for the rigors of city partying. I hadn't trained properly. Nights spent with a lowfat ice-cream bar and Arrested Development on DVD should have been replaced with two-day benders, the bench press of the party fitness plan. I did not know this. Next year I will be prepared.

Not a squeak could I utter for six days. That is 144 hours, or approximately 143 hours and 59 minutes longer than I have ever gone without talking. I would try to call people on the phone. They'd answer, "Hello?" and I'd say "________ ." They'd hang up on me. My NSLP (nonsexual life partner) Ariel, resident of the first floor of 23 Broad Street, would call me because (bless her) she is the only person who genuinely missed talking to me. "Hey," she'd say, followed by me huffing as loud as I could into the phone to signify hello. "I know you can't talk, but I'm going to watch TV. Huff once if you want to watch with me or twice if you don't..."

Luckily for everyone, and Kenny my nail guy in particular, I got my voice back on the seventh day. God rested on the seventh day; I spoke. Kenny didn't file my left index fingernail quite round enough and I croaked, "Rounder, please, Kenny?" to which he replied, disappointed, "I thought you couldn't talk."

After the nail appointment I proceeded to call the whole of my Sim card. No one answered. Maybe it was because it was Friday night and they were doing bench presses. I can't say for sure. But it was a dark hour in my life. I had a voice (albeit one that sounded painful to use) and no one to talk to. What a sad story. Let me pass you a Kleenex.

I made up for it by speaking continuously for the next five days. If you don't believe me, ask Brian and my aforementioned NSLP who were lucky enough to listen to me talk for approximately four hours on Tuesday night in a bout of verbal diarrhea previously unequalled by any loudmouth in history.

The only place I am still milking the laryngitis is at work, where I have found it to be my most useful professional asset since my college diploma. People knock on my office door bearing phone messages and file folders with Post-It notes that have a big "?" written in red on them, queries poised on their tongues. But they all stop when they realize I cannot answer them. "Oh, sorry! I'll figure it out myself," and "I'll call Dr. Bigshot back for you," they say. I smile sympathetically at them and thank them only with my sad, still slightly glassy eyes.

My boss, who is a doctor himself and quite possibly not the owner of a soul, has even started to inquire about my well-being. "I hope your voice is better soon," he said on his way out to a business trip. "It could take a couple weeks yet, but it'll come back."

And I know he ony wants my voice back so he can make me do more work--or maybe he misses the one-word answers I usually offer him when he insists on speaking to me--but any concern offered my way is nice just the same. And he doesn't realize it, but he accidentally let it slip that I have up to two more weeks of not speaking at work to look forward to faking.

And the Academy Award for best nonvocal performance in the workplace goes to......me!

Look at that; silence really is golden.

Talk to me without making a sound: pilarrrgh@gmail.com

PS: I love the Houston and the people in the Houston and I go to the Houston at least once every year because it is my third-favorite American city. There are good people there. Friendly people. That city has opened its heart to the Katrina victims like you could not even imagine and now it looks like Rita has her eye (no pun intended) on Houston. I'm praying for you, Houston (and the rest of the Texas/Louisiana coast), and hope you make it safe and sound.