What Happens to Girls Who Talk Too Much7:30 AM
If you were to interrupt one of my mornings or evenings this past week, you would see strange things. You would see a paper bag full of tissues and their empty boxes; you would find cups and straws and days-old water; you would notice an army of medicine at attention on our kitchen island.
You would probably find me underneath a pale blue towel, inhaling eucalyptus oil and steam, trying my best not to do a Darth Vader impression. Now, to be sure, it's no fun being sickly (which is more of a "prone to being sick" than actual sickness itself, in my etymological opinion): but when you're sixteen and have to take on the world, it's not a matter of fun or not fun. It's a war zone.
Particularly when one must try out for a play and has approximately three days to chase away a cold. I have an interesting history with illness and plays. The last performance of the last play I was in (a very, very long time ago, I assure you), I had a fever and a horrible sick feeling to my stomach. (That was due to Seven-Up and angel food cake the night before, I believe.) Bright lights, hot costumes, bouncing around happily onstage and having to stand up for ten minutes while everyone else selfishly took the only seats on set...recipe for disaster. I sat backstage with my head in my arms and ate one Cheezit. Bad idea.
But I did have a good dose of self-pity to keep me going. Seeing that, you know, other people weren't particularly gungho about doing the pitying for me.
And then there was the time when I lost my voice and filmed an elaborate retelling of Sarah Whitcher's Story. The movie is particularly funny to watch when I'm in the scenes, my voice fluctuating from gravel to squeak.
I was talking of my recent illness. More specifically, I was about to recount the single handed heroism against cough and laryngitis. It involved me bravely staying put in bed, cancelling all my appointments for the week, missing out on all the fun, drinking too much water and orange juice and swallowing a handful of pills three times a day. Elderberry and echinacea, however, can only do so much.
I lost that battle, only to make a bright recovery the morning of the auditions, do a questionably spectacular job at my solo (colds do make one prone to warbling -- no comment) and consequently lose my voice two hours later.
Well, since I had no more singing or speaking arrangements for the rest of the week, I didn't mind so much. It's just rather embarrassing to rely on whispering or squeaking -- or silence. Can you imagine the utter cruelty of silencing a voluble soul? It cut me to the quick, yes, it did.
And I had to be silent, for I remembered I had a youth rally that Saturday and I wanted to talk. Very badly. And I had to talk Sunday too. I had to, you know; I really did. So I laid out my strategy: I zipped my lips...sort of. And I pulled down all three of our health books and looked up laryngitis.
One was very hopeful and gave several things to do to conquer this horrid croakiness. Another one wasn't; it regretfully informed me that voice loss was very resistant to medical care. I didn't listen to it. I breathed steam. I gargled a cup of salt water (though one book disdained such a practice). I forgot pleasantness and swallowed weak tea, lemon juice and honey. And I did it again in the morning.
I talked. I'm still talking. And I doubt not that I shall be talking again tomorrow.
(p.s. Do please refrain from all "Aw, so sorry to hear you were sick" comments. They won't do any good, for one thing, as I am no longer sick and don't plan on being so for a long time. A hero can only sally out so many times in one month.)