I’ve never liked my voice. It’s not bad, but I’ve always longed for a sexy, smokey drawl that just begs to be listened to. That, I do not have. I cringe when I hear my voice on answering machines and go through at least ten takes when recording a voice mail greeting. When I am blessed with bronchitis, I refuse to clear my throat, milking the horse voice for as long as I possibly can. When I’m angry, my voice takes on a high pitched tone that probably summons dogs for miles around. Admittedly, it’s a pretty awful sound.
One of the biggest fights Jeff and I ever had was on one of our cross country drives. I have no recollection of exactly what it was about, but it culminated in him bursting out in hysterics over the sound of my primitive scream. Let me tell you: There is nothing more infuriating than yelling at your husband and having him laugh in your face. Nothing.
One thing that’s even worse than the sound of my own voice? It’s the sound of my scream bellowing through my daughter’s throat. Daily, I hear Lily holler “Bee-eeee-ennnnn” in the most irritating voice I’ve ever heard.
It’s bone chilling.
And it’s all mine. I really need to work on that.