As a writer, I tend to value the written word often even more than speaking. A conversation can only be replayed again and again in your mind (unless it’s taped or recorded, but go with me here) whereas a letter can be cherished, re-read in the middle of the night, kept in your journal to revisit when you need a pick-me-up or at least a reminder that someone, some time, somewhere DID, in fact, think you were special. I’ve got a few of these notes saved away for those rainy days, when the world seems a bit gray & desolate and the only excitement is finally getting your new All-Clad pan de-greased after a disastrous bout with crepes. It’s the little things, you know.

And yet despite my predilection for writing, putting thoughts on paper or even online (the de facto standard of communication these days, a concept that makes me long for fine stationary and a fountain pen), I’m finding it an interesting quandary on how much I DO count on verbal communication to express my thoughts. Now more than ever, in fact, since I’ve lost my voice.

Yes, Aubrey has (to some extent) been silenced.

An adorable friend of mine said how wierd it was to hear me be this quiet, and until he said that, I don’t think I realized how much I really DO talk. Not so much as a space-filler (I’m fine with comfortable silences), but to share my thoughts on this matter or that song or your pants (pleated khakis are BAD! BAD, I say) or even the fact that there’s nothing like a sunny March day in Georgia to give you Spring fever. Even driving on a brisk, beautiful Sunday morning, top down and drinking a cup of tea, I found myself wanting to talk instead of just witnessing the way the sunlight streamed through the trees in silence. It’s the “Don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” theory (props to Poison and all), but I’ve found it both infuriating and frustrating to try, without avail, to order a McGriddle into the drive-thru when all that comes out is a muted quasi-whistling sound. I mean, you can barely even call into work to let them know you’re sick – they can’t hear your whisperingly quiet message trunkated by a staccatoed hacking cough, after all.

So I’ll be taking some long naps, trying to get a doctor’s appointment, and hoping above hope that I’m really not contageous and didn’t pass on my sickie-germs to certain people who have certain important appointments this weekend that they really can’t miss. In the meantime, I’ll talk with you write you later…