Nov 15

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…I have only had it once as I can recall. Perhaps I’ve already shared this story, but for a brief period during my early twenties, I was a full-time children’s music director at a church. Five minutes into that career, I wondered why I had just spent the last 4 years and EIGHTY THOUSAND DOLLARS (which I am still spending) on a Music History degree. Not only did I feel I had somehow been duped by the establishment (whichever establishment specializes in duping unsuspecting over-acheivers such as myself), but I was feeling so 24, and small, and single, and alone, and uninspired, and oh so very. very… single.

Enter Clark Beasley.

And I thought he was beautiful and talented and off-beat enough to at least enjoy a free dinner or a cup of coffee. Shortly after we first met, I found myself peeking at my phone throughout the day hoping to see a number I didn’t recognize. I would answer. It would be Clark. He would say he had “ways” of tracking my unlisted phone number and within minutes, he would ask me out for dinner and next thing you know I’m imagining what I would wear and what I would say and what he would say… and then I would say… and then he would say… and then I would say…

You get the picture. But alas. It would remain but a fantasy… for SIX WHOLE MONTHS. That’s enough time to pen The Tales of the Blind Date Train Wreck– of which I was soon becoming an expert.

Twenty-four. Single. Duped. Set up. Needless to say, it wasn’t a good look on me.

And so, one Spring day I woke up with a scratch in my throat, and next thing you know, it’s noon and I am unable to utter an intelligible phrase. It was laryngitis and I had no choice but to shut up until it passed. So, I clocked out of my cubicle for the day, but not before I heeded the advice of a co-worker who swore that Maker’s Mark and hot tea would whip me back into shape in no time. Now, I have said it before, and I will say it again, there are a few things in life, namely church work and cubicles, that can drive a sober person to drink. However, as single and duped as I believed myself to be, I generally chose to abstain.


So here’s a pop quiz for you: What do you get when you combine a prescribed holistic remedy by an ex-rock and roll band member turned church worker with an unexperienced drinker nursing her first case of laryngitis?

Answer: A Twenty-four year old, single. duped. set up, mute, and now completely SMASHED ministry worker. Things somehow went from bad to worse.

The phone rings. I don’t recognize the phone number. It’s a Nashville area code. Clark Beasley is from Nashville. I’m drunk (add that to a very short list of inebriated episodes in my 24 years..Praise the Lord) and all alone, sitting in the dark in my apartment crying out a completely inaudible, “NOOOO!!!!!” as I watched my flickering green fantasy roll to voicemail. It was quite the dramatic scene.

But you know how the story ends. I sobered up and my voice came back and we went out and five minutes later we were married and… they lived happily every after.

I remembered that story this morning while I was texting a girlfriend at 6am. That’s what happens when you have kids. You start getting in touch with people at weird and inappropriate times because normal people are able to complete a thought in their brain during business hours. Mommies do their best thinking between the hours of 2am-4am with sentences including words over two syllables. Such is life with small children. But, if I may speak candidly for a moment, I have been battling the blue sense that in the current edition of my life, I run the risk of losing my voice (figuratively speaking). Do you ever feel that way? Perhaps you had a platform or a forum to be heard and people actually listened and nodded as though every word you spoke (or in my case wrote or sung…. I loathe public speaking) was dripping with noteworthy brilliance. I’m not saying it happened every day. But when it did, it felt as though my voice somehow mattered to people. But lately, I’ve spoken, written, and sung less than I ever have before which usually leads to healthy introspection or at the very least more Maker’s Mark. In my attempt to explain this in my wee-hour text to my friend, I described it as a sort of “Soul Laryngitis”. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation. I can’t remember if she said it or if I did, but at some point one of us said: Well, that’s the good thing about laryngitis. It’s temporary.

And so, this post is brought to you from my empty garden tub because the window next to it provides the prettiest view of the Autumn leaves barely hanging on to the trees in my backyard. With this cold ceramic as my witness, I have never intended to stay completely quiet. Perhaps if we pick up our conversation here, it might help me get over my voiceless funk. Or you can be my guest and help yourself to a hot tottie and we can proceed in silence. Either way, I’m reaching out so tag… your it.

{And no, Mom. I am most certainly not an alcoholic.}

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Salina Beasley