It’s been quiet around Chez Night the last few days. That’s mainly because last week my voice wandered off at a rest stop somewhere between Missouri and here and has had to hitchhike its way back home. (I know I should have been paying more attention, but the cold medicine made me groggy). About half of it has made it back as of today, and I’m leaving the light on for the rest of it.
For the past few days my voice has fluctuated somewhere between a whisper and a scrape, which has led to some interesting challenges. For example, I haven’t been able to replace my out-of-office voicemail message at work because if I had tried to record anything my callers would end up thinking they’d mistakenly called Dial-A-Perv.
On Wednesday our Executive of the Year came down from Olympus to inspect the troops (“Executive-of-the-Year” is not an award but an acknowledgement that my Division of the Company has reported up to four different super-senior executives in the last five years). I was among a group of managers invited to a get-to-know-you luncheon. You know what happened: “let’s go around the room and say something about what you do.” Naturally, the EOTY decided to sit at the opposite end of the long conference table from me. After five other people had done their thing all eyes rolled to me. I stood up (everyone else had remained seated), grabbed my lunch plate, and walked all the way around the table to an empty chair across from our guest. I then gave my name and croaked “I’m responsible for Communications, and the first rule of Communications is to put yourself in a position to be heard.” Actually, I think that worked out rather well as I quickly hit the “5 things you need to know in 15 seconds” then sat back and let the rotation go on; if the EOTY remembers anyone from that meeting I’m sure it will be me. The rest of the meeting I relied on thoughtful, profound eyebrow movements to make up for what I was missing in vocalization.
The worst part was Tuesday night. I had been saving some tasty morsel for myself, but when I went to the refrigerator it was gone! “Hey! Where’s my ….” I said, except that it came out sounding more like, “Heh! Wissss shhhh meh, meh!” I was like Mufasa without his roar. I had to go into the living room where the rest of the family was and pantomime a tantrum. I pounded my fist into my open, up-turned palm and twisted it. I slashed my finger across my throat. I swung my arms up and out to diagram a large mushroom cloud. The effect was less than satisfying as the response was more amused than repentent. Arrrgghhh! (Boy, my throat hurts just typing that!)
Oh well, it was probably for the best. Some things really are better left unsaid.
I take it you haven’t had to preach/teach over the last week. I remember our wedding—the singer showed up and was ready to tell us he couldn’t perform because he had a cold and his voice was shot. We prayed over him, and he did a great job with ‘Standing on Holy Ground’ and ‘I will be here.’
Couldn’t you have come out of the kitchen swinging a big blade like you did when MD dared to bring a boy over to the house?