Speak

Friday night, I went out Redsox's 30th birthday. I hadn't been feeling particularly well most of the week, but my intense minced garlic/vitamin c regimen had kept whatever illness at bay.

As expected, we had a great time in our suite at the celtics game then on to a bar for plenty of drinking. RedSox was looking to get drunk... and boy did he. The bartender poured whiskey straight out of the bottle into his mouth. When we got home, he immediately went to the bathroom. Puked and passed out.

Being the good girl-friend, I occasionally kicked him and asked if he was alive. Mumblings of undecipherable language told me he was just fine.

I thought I was just fine too. I barely drank, knowing I would be taking care of him. But the next morning I couldn't speak. My throat was hurting quite a bit and any attempt to talk was painful.

So I whispered as loudly as I could when I needed to say something, but mostly I sat in silence. Watched tv in silence, studied in silence, avoided phone calls knowing that I would be silent on my end.

I never realized how much I liked to talk (let's not comment on what I have to say), until I couldn't. I'll tell you one thing though, my hand-writing is looking much purtier.

Come Sunday night I was telling OleMiss about my weekend online. At the end of our conversation I told him, "by the way, I can't even speak because of laryngitis."

His reply, "wow. You just became the perfect woman."