I stopped into Heller's (awesome neighborhood bakery) on my way to work this morning. The same cool, tall, black guy with diamond studs and braids past his shoulders that usually helps me, called me over to the counter. I had to sidestep a ridiculously cute Mt. Pleasant family with an infant and a toddler in tow while their dog was chained up outside in order to reach the counter. I walked over and ordered my usual, perhaps a little embarassed that he might recognize me and my order from my 4 or 5 visits since I've moved to the area.
Me:"An apple fritter, please."
Now, this guy is pretty cool. He's way too cool to just be working in a bakery. He definitely has a funk band. Or does multi-media installation art using found materials. Probably he also bakes some of the delicious pastries and adds a secret Dominican flare that he no doubt learned from his senile island grandmothr. So, ordering a doughnut from him makes me a little nervous. I tend to get a little nervous like that around super hip and/or attractive people (Like when the Canadian and her boy are together, I shut down just a little-- there is just too much beautiful in one room.) Anway, his response was not what I expected.
Cool dude:"That's not how you really talk is it?"
Me: (thinking 'What does that mean? What is he talking about? Why would he say...?....Oh *realization*....I definitely just used my waif** voice.)
**The "waif" voice is what one Professor of Theatre Douglas Sprigg used to accuse me of having in Acting II, Voice and Body. It's where I sound like a pretty mcpretty little lacoste wearing Theta, and not a 6 foot tall hoss.
"Um....yeah....in the morning...."
Cool dude:"Really?"
Me: "Yeeeaah. Why?
Cool dude: *looking at me, trying to decide how not to offend me
Me: "Cause I'm tall?"
Cool dude: "Yeah, you're, you know....you're not...you're a..." (goes to get my fritter) (comes back) "You look like you know how to swing a bat at something!"
I guess "swing a bat at something" is a figure of speech that I never learned growing up in the suburbs. I know how to swing a bat at a softball. Or an intruder.
I left, mildly offended that super-hip counter help guy thinks he knows me and how I should talk. But then I realized he was totally right and even though that is how how I OFTEN talk, it's not how I REALLY talk. It's a fake voice. A lie-- trying to get people to think I'm sweet and charming and young. "Oh, she's such a sweet girl, what a quaint little voice she has!" The dumb voice came out because I was embarassed that I was having my second apple fritter of the week. And afraid that he was going to remember that I'd already been in once this week for the same sugar-loaded, deep-fried goodness.
Doug Sprigg would be overjoyed that a layman (despite the fact that he must surely be an artist of some sort) has assisted me in remembering my Linklater and freeing my natural voice.
Apple Fritter: $1.50
Impromptu Theatre Lesson: priceless
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