It may sound like something Carly Simon would serenade me for, but I really do miss my voice.
As I mentioned earlier in the week, Grace was worried she was getting the dreaded Swine Flu.
She clearly caught some sort of bug and, for the most part, appears to be on the mend. In the process, however, I appear to have gotten a bit of something too, although mine is centered entirely in my throat.
I feel fine. I feel great actually, I just can’t talk.
For the better part of the last two days, I’ve had no real voice.
Everything comes out scratchy and hoarse or high and squeaky, but nothing comes out sounding like me.
As vain as it may sound, I really do miss the sound of my own voice.
It’s hard enough to be taken seriously when your facial hair has a decidedly sad and pre-pubescent aura about it, having your voice follow suit is just plain unfair.
In the past couple of days, I’ve had to sit on the outside of some cool conversations because I can’t utter more than a word or two before I trail off into inaudible grumbles or I get all squeaky to a point where only dogs and long-shore fishermen can interpret what I’m saying.
I miss my voice.