I realise, dear readers, that last week I wrote about having the flu and losing my voice.
You probably thought I would have moved on to a whole ‘nother crisis by now, but nay. Allow me to share with you the day when hell froze over: I didn’t speak for 24 hours straight.
Frankly, I blame Cayman Cookout for weakening my resolve. I hosted a couple of events for the culinary festival at The Ritz-Carlton, but those weren’t really the issue – it was the big social scene I couldn’t resist. Rum & Robusto on the Sunday afternoon was like ‘Bridgerton’-meets-Havana. I felt like a debutante, making my way through the ton, and I could not stop talking. One moment I was trying to behave; the next, I was yapping to a dozen people at once. The next morning, my throat felt like I’d eaten a pineapple, whole. And sound-wise, I Was Groot. Time to take this seriously, Wheaton.
I spoke a little on Monday, but I resolved to completely shut down, verbally, on Tuesday.
From first thing in the morning, it became clear that best friend/housemate Lynne and I would make a lousy charades team. I felt that I was being perfectly clear when I gestured that we could move something from that night (me pointing upwards) to the next evening.
“The ceiling?” she said. “Something in the ceiling?”
I shook my head, and pointed upwards with more vigor – the equivalent of yelling louder in English at someone in a foreign country.
Lynne stared at me, confused. I tried to mouth it, but that didn’t help either. I had to find a piece of paper and write it out. It wasn’t even 10am and I was jonesing for a chat.
My phone started ringing at intervals soon after. Each time, I had to refuse the call, then send a text to explain that I couldn’t talk. I came to loathe autocorrect. “A goober can fly” I confided in one friend, while a client nearly received “Barrel on stage at 5pm” before I caught it in the nick of time. The frustration was welling up in me. How did those monks manage this? No vows of silence for this Chatty Cathy.
I wasn’t the only one rolling their eyes. Despite my world-class gesticulations, Lynne couldn’t grasp that we needed to get copies of the house key cut; she had to pick up some Fancy Feast Gravy Lovers for our fussy cats; and I was going out in the afternoon. The pen and paper reappeared.
I had to go to WORC to drop off some paperwork and get a car tested. Based on my useless interactions with my friend, who supposedly knew me better than anyone, I decided to print out an explanation to show frontline staff so I wouldn’t look like I was going through a seizure each time.
I put the wording on one piece of paper in a large bold font. One line stated that I had temporarily lost my voice. The next line said I needed to drop off paperwork to be processed; and the third said I needed my car tested and its registration renewed.
The first stop was WORC, and the security guard couldn’t have been nicer or more helpful, but he looked at me strangely when he saw that I needed my car to be tested. The page was facing him and I’d folded it the wrong way.
“Oh! No, no,” I waved wordlessly, pointing at the second line. He took me to the relevant area, and I deposited the papers. Phase I was complete.
Next was the DVDL and the inspection pit.
“We don’t process WORC papers here,” the inspector said, kindly.
Sigh. I readjusted the sentence I was showing him before he felt compelled to give me a breathalyser test. The pit portion of my visit commenced.
I was rubbish at this. Only three lines on a piece of paper and I couldn’t display the right one?
I. Wanna. Talk!
I know I have a flair for the dramatic, but by 7pm, it genuinely felt like the longest day ever. I wasn’t sure if it was a wonderful experiment to try and heal my voice, or a disturbing way to discover that talking was only second to breathing in my world of importance.
Do you know the worst thing of all, as the sun set on my Day of Silence? I knew an INSANE number of correct answers for that night’s ‘Jeopardy!’ and I couldn’t yell out a single one. For some reason, Lynne was ignoring me, so I was mouthing ‘DAM!’ ‘COLLINS!’ and ‘LOUISIANA!” to no one.
After five correct in a row, I finally thwapped her on the arm to get her attention.
“I’m getting them all right!” I flailed silently in front of her.
“What? Feed the chickens?” she replied.
Please, Lord, give me my words back.
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