Learning from Laryngitis

I have been without the use of my voice for three full days now. In the middle of the fourth day, I can't help but think this is the universe's way of telling me I should rest my voice a bit more. 

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The universe is clearly about as subtle as Emma Woodhouse on Box Hill.

            

Many of my friends, however, have been far too kind to me while I have been unable to speak. This should not surprise me, as this probably makes me somewhat easier to deal with than when I do not have laryngitis. However, they are making a mistake. I deserve no sympathy. This predicament is all my own fault, and I deserve all the misery and frustration it entails. I can only hope I will learn a valuable lesson from it.

See, I have a problem with singing. Reading this, you may assume that this means I sometimes push my voice a bit too far in the shower or occasionally join in with my friends in a verse or two of something toward the end of a night out. You’re completely wrong. That doesn’t even begin to cover it. My problem is different – namely, that after about three quarters of a vodka tonic, I become absolutely convinced that I am Ethel Merman, Mary Martin, or Frederica von Stade, depending on my mood and what I have been listening to earlier in the day. It isn't even a drinking thing. It's just that now I have an excuse.

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It is Not Attractive Behavior, partly because I am not Ethel, Mary, or Frederica, and partly because I am not on stage. Saturday, for instance, when I strained my voice, I was in a friend’s kitchen. See? Not a stage.

Normally, I am content to pretend I possess a modicum of dignity and self respect, and possibly a basic understanding of good behavior. Sure, I may want to sing, but I realize that it is a bad idea, so instead I sit and make relatively normal, if excruciatingly nerdy, conversation.

However, it is all over the moment some poor dumb soul says, “Sara, why don’t you sing something?” On a conscious level, I know they are probably either drunk, deluded, humoring me, or messing with me. Still, I can’t help but be flattered. I have not only been given permission to do what I know good manners and good sense dictate I should not. I have actually been asked! I may protest, but at this point, I am probably already doing discreet breathing exercises and analyzing repertoire choices.

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I am quietly preparing to embarrass the hell out of myself, with the excuse that it’s harmless fantasy. (“What would I sing if…") In short, I have no shame. This process of preparation is easy to justify as a silent, indulgent game, but it primes me to make a fool of myself and make everyone else uncomfortable the moment someone suggests I sing a second time, a karaoke book is passed around, or something reminds me of a song.

It would be cruel to say no no, I tell myself, just before I launch into an off key Baroque aria, a poorly planned Cole Porter medley, or a Rodgers and Hammerstein classic I once sang in high school. After all, I have been asked to sing! Multiple times! Or it's karaoke. Aren't we supposed to sing at karaoke? And of course it can't go as badly as last time. 

What I should be telling myself at this point is that I am not appeasing an adoring public. I am embarrassing myself.

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I am really embarrassing myself, and everyone who is pretending not to know me. It is not becoming. It is not ladylike. It needs to stop.  The universe, it seems, agrees. I realized this on Sunday morning when I woke up, attempted to speak, and heard only a squeak.

           

In response, I am making a new rule for myself:

            

I will not sing outside of choir, or the privacy of my own shower. It is never a good idea, no matter what “encouragement” I may receive. I will no longer subject myself or anyone else to my unfortunate squawking and the awkwardness it creates.  Not in a friend’s flat, not while walking to or from a social event, not in an echoey stairwell, and certainly not at karaoke.

Should you be present at a social event at which I seem ready to break this rule, please, please stop me. Squirt me with a water gun like a cat that’s gotten onto a kitchen counter. Swat me on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. Do whatever you have to do to get my attention. Duly chastened, I will resume my pretension of normalcy.

You will be spared the discomfort of listening to me sing in an inappropriate situation with no warm up and no rehearsal, and I will certainly thank you later. Possibly with food.

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