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I complain about how the nineteenth-century creators of the papers I work with are obsessed with the weather... but really, this deserves comment. 60 degrees in January is ridiculous north of the Mason-Dixon line. Thank you, move along.
In happier news, after three days of enforced silence I can now (mostly) speak. Maybe before the week's out I'll feel like doing something more than lying on the couch under three layers of fleece, watching ROTK EE extras and episodes of Firefly.
There was a period of a few years, in high school I think, when I lost my voice regularly. Instead of catching cold the traditional way, I'd just - boom - go silent. Or, more precisely, weak and squeaky. No cough, not even a sore throat most of the time, just funny sounds. It was odd, over the weekend, how strange and yet perfectly familiar it felt to be devoiced. The feeling of reaching for the phone and trying to find a pitch at which I could make a sound was particularly evocative of calling classmates for homework in high school.
I can't remember, though, how long it usually lasted, and yesterday (the third day) I started to panic a little bit. What if it's permanent? What if I can never talk like myself again? I'm never too old, I'm finding, for a spot of paranoid hypochondria. Fun for all ages!
Today, of course, it's better, and if I keep from talking too much - not hard, as in the office we're all sullen and unhappy to be here today, after a three-day weekend - it should be better still tomorrow. And I certainly have plenty of a/v goodies to occupy me during a quiet evening at home tonight.
In happier news, after three days of enforced silence I can now (mostly) speak. Maybe before the week's out I'll feel like doing something more than lying on the couch under three layers of fleece, watching ROTK EE extras and episodes of Firefly.
There was a period of a few years, in high school I think, when I lost my voice regularly. Instead of catching cold the traditional way, I'd just - boom - go silent. Or, more precisely, weak and squeaky. No cough, not even a sore throat most of the time, just funny sounds. It was odd, over the weekend, how strange and yet perfectly familiar it felt to be devoiced. The feeling of reaching for the phone and trying to find a pitch at which I could make a sound was particularly evocative of calling classmates for homework in high school.
I can't remember, though, how long it usually lasted, and yesterday (the third day) I started to panic a little bit. What if it's permanent? What if I can never talk like myself again? I'm never too old, I'm finding, for a spot of paranoid hypochondria. Fun for all ages!
Today, of course, it's better, and if I keep from talking too much - not hard, as in the office we're all sullen and unhappy to be here today, after a three-day weekend - it should be better still tomorrow. And I certainly have plenty of a/v goodies to occupy me during a quiet evening at home tonight.