Week Fifteen - Shut Your Mouth
There are some challenges I have on my list that I can’t just go and do. Some require lots of preparation; hours of researching, planning, and booking (sometimes to no avail). Others are ready to go, and mostly, they are the challenges that have been suggested to me that I’m not so keen on. They are reserved exclusively for the weeks that creep up on me. When it gets to the weekend and I realise I’ve got nada. This was one of those weeks.
I was going against every mobile phone slogan ever created (apart from ‘Be More Dog’, but I think we’re all hoping that if we don’t give that enough attention it might go away) and I was becoming a mute for 24 hours. Who knows what I’d discover. Maybe O2 were lying to us before and we’re actually better disconnected.
Perhaps I’d achieve enlightenment, like the people who pay to go to those yoga retreats where you don’t speak or eat for a month. Not for me, I have to say… I’d be the person rocking and crying in corner, scooping stolen yoghurt into my mouth with my bare hands and talking to the voices inside my head. Not because I’m mentally unstable, I just enjoy communication and nourishment in my life. So perhaps not, on the enlightenment front.
At 4pm on Saturday, I took my vow of silence. For somebody who was robbing themselves of speech for 24 hours, I was feeling pretty smug (mainly because I am excellent at charades). I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I set an alarm (accidentally choosing the most horrifying noise the iPhone has to offer. The one that sounds like a bomb scare evacuation. I did well not to scream and break the silence within seconds) and continued watching crap on Netflix. I let the moment pass unremarkably, as the hideous “radar” tone erupted from my phone, and simply resumed watching crap on Netflix.
I stayed like that for about an hour. This was pretty easy. Maybe I’d just be a recluse the entire time (just kidding, I’m far too needy, who knows what permanent damage could be done with out lack of any real human contact). Then I heard a voice. Paul was shouting up the stairs, saying goodbye. I stayed silent. He called again. Maybe I should bang the lamp on the windowsill. Would that translate? It had worked for me once before when I was younger. I woke up feeling a little weird and when I tried to call out to my parents I found that my voice wouldn’t make any sound. Gripped by fear I started smashing my lamp onto my bedside table. My mum came running in and turned the light on just in time to see me roll over the bed and vomit onto the floor. Come to think of it, maybe the lamp trick should only be used in times of distress. I guess it does sort of radiate panic.
Thankfully, in the midst of my lamp bashing dilemma, Paul had clocked the time and realised that the challenge had started. He shouted up not to worry. Thank god. I literally cannot bear it if people think I’m rude (or mean). It can be exhausting, in fact I once spent my lunch break at school hunting down one of the dinner ladies because she thought I’d been rude about her hair (it was a horrible misunderstanding and I was so mortified I couldn’t finish my chips due to the magnitude of the knot my stomach was tying itself into). Don’t worry, we straightened it out in the end. And if Paul hadn’t realised, I was halfway through a heart felt text apology anyway.
After another hour or so of being a hermit, I decided to venture downstairs to test myself a little. And also because I was hungry.
In the kitchen, Jo was making a cup of tea. She asked if I wanted one and I gestured towards the peppermint and liquorice (I know what you’re thinking. I was skeptical too. But it is genuinely amazing. I don’t even like liquorice). Since we couldn’t sit and chat, we turned to the TV for entertainment, and I gave a thumbs up to watch The Island on catch up. A brief explanation if you don’t know - Bear Grylls puts a set of men and a set of women on two different islands with a basic survival kit and they have to fend for themselves. It’s very exciting. Plus I love Bear Grylls and refuse to hear any gossip surrounding the rumour that he may or may not stay in Travel Lodges. He slept inside that camel carcass and I won’t have anyone say otherwise.
I won’t spoil it, but loads of great shit happened. I was on the edge of my seat. I was using hand gestures in an extremely flamboyant manner to convey all my emotions and thoughts to Jo. And she was a pretty good interpreter. Either that, or she was just humouring me.
I spent the rest of the day in total torture, watching TV programmes, eating, and not being able to speak. At one point, I got really desperate and crafted a note to Jo, just the let her know how frustrated I was #firstworldproblems. Sadly I threw it in the bin in torment after, but it was words to the effect of, “this is SO hard. I hate it already.” Pathetic.
After dinner, and a particularly eventful episode of Big Bang Theory (SPOILER ALERT Howard’s Mum died), an unfortunate misunderstanding caused me to let out an audible gasp. In my defence, I thought I’d heard Paul say Bernadette was going to die, and I couldn’t believe they would kill off two characters in such quick succession. Poor Howard, first his own Mother, then his fiancée. I’m sure you understand.
One thing I learnt about being mute is that, much like giving up technology, you tend to go to bed a little on the early side. So at 9pm on a Saturday night I retired to my room and prepared to bunk down for the night.
The next morning, I woke to a text from my Mum. Was I coming to yoga with her. Shit, I’d forgotten about that. She was due to pick me up an hour from then, plenty of time, so I pretended I hadn’t forgotten and messaged her back to say I was excited, and chucked a few smiley faces in for good measure.
To be honest, I was glad we were going to yoga. I knew I’d have to do something in public in the 24 hours, otherwise people I don’t know wouldn’t get the chance to think I was a massive weirdo, and where’s the challenge in that? I figured I’d better send a second message explaining that I was going to be mute. Thankfully my mum took it in good humour and didn’t seem to be dreading introducing me as her (slightly strange) daughter.
Even though I’d had plenty of notice, I still faffed around successfully enough to greet my mum half dressed with wet hair when she knocked on the door. She went to wait in the car and I began running around the house looking for trainers and a yoga mat with my toothbrush hanging out my mouth. As I ran up and down the stairs (teeth brushing now complete) I have to confess I let out a barely audible fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I wasn’t thinking. But also, nobody was around to hear, so technically it doesn’t count, right?
Safely in the car, with trainers on feet and yoga mat in hand, my mum pulled away, asking me if I’d got everything. I smiled a smug yes as I plaited my wet hair. Then she ran through the checklist of things I may have forgotten, as if I was five again. The annoying thing about mums is that doesn’t stop, even if you’re in your mid twenties. I often wonder whether it’s a rite of passage. You have a kid and then all of a sudden you just know what everyone else needs, and more importantly where everything is. I’m a bit skeptical about it actually - I’m half expecting to be in the delivery room and as soon as the baby pops out my mum will hand me a gigantic manual of stuff needed for every occasion along with its probable whereabouts, and I’ll have to memorise the whole thing before the baby reaches one. They may show you all the blood, sweat and torn vaginas in one born every minute, but they don’t show you that.
The thing about getting this treatment when you’re 26 is that, even more annoyingly, there’s still always something you’ve inevitably forgotten. This time it was water. I shamefacedly shook my head as she asked. And then, as if to redeem myself, I waved a fiver in her face. Look! I remembered the money! Bet you thought I’d forgotten the money! She responded by pointing at the tenner on the dashboard, and I tried to enjoy my bittersweet victory. On one hand, I’d remembered the one thing she thought I’d forget. On the other hand, I now had to pay for the yoga class myself.
My mum did her best to decipher what I was trying to say to her as we drove, but she wasn’t doing too well. To be fair, it was probably for the best that she decided to prioritise the road over my attempts to act out that I’d bought a new bike.
When we arrived, I waved my greeting to the group as my mum introduced me. I’m pretty sure they all thought I was a bit weird, but out of all the things you could do as a mute, you’d probably find the most understanding company in a yoga class as you’d get anywhere else.
As the class began I realised that it could have been a challenge in itself. The instructor Veronica (a friend of my mums), had just completed her teaching qualifications, and she was good. Seriously good. No amount of Barbara Currie DVDs could have prepared me for this, and lord knows I’ve tried them. I like the way she (Barbara) tells me how well I’m doing even though there’s no possible way she can tell whether I’m showcasing textbook poses or whether I’m sitting on the sofa with my hand in a bag of Doritos. But we both gloss over it, and I still feel a swell of pride as she praises my salute to the sun, ignoring the fact that I am managing to stretch about a quarter of the distance she is. Honestly, she incredible, she’s probably three times my age and she rocks that legging and leotard combo like she’s in an Eric Prydz video. (Actually I just spent a good amount of time googling her and it turns out I have not over exaggerated that comment. She is 74. I am both impressed and depressed. Bravo Barbara, bravo).
Anyway, turns out Barbara was lying to me, because I can barely touch my toes, and every pose we held in class made my muscles shake pathetically. At a couple of points, Veronica came over to push me a little further. As I gave her my best downward dog, my bum thrust as high in the air as I could manage, she began to gently push on my legs and ease my heels towards the floor. “Just tell me if it’s too much,” she said in her gentle tone. It was too much. But I couldn’t tell her, so I just decided to go with it. And it turns out I’ve got a pretty high pain threshold, who knew!
An hour and a half later, having elongated every limb and attempted a string of head stands (either against the wall or with Veronica’s assistance, sadly it turns out I’m not a secret gymnast), I was feeling pretty incredible. And even though I couldn’t join in with the ‘ohms’ at the end of the class, I channeled my energy like a boss.
When I returned home, I had just over three hours left before I could flex those vocal chords and discard that filter between my brain and my mouth once more. I enjoyed having the house to myself for an hour or so. And then my phone rang. An unknown number, but I knew who it was. It was Halfords, calling to say they’d assembled my precious bike and it was ready to collect. At least I assumed that’s what they were calling about, because I couldn’t actually pick up my phone.
As Jo came through the door, I hovered excitedly, miming to her that my bike was (probably) ready. She had a car full of plants (she’s a gardener), so we ferried them through the gate and onto the patio (plants are heavier than you’d think, and the mornings previous yoga activities were not helping matters).
Finally, at 3:45, it was time. We got into the car and I was excited on two counts; in fifteen minutes I was going to acquire a new shiny bike and my ability to talk. I was insufferable as I counted down the minutes to sweet familiar speech, and as it approached the final minute, I think Jo was about as relieved as I was. I imagine the interpreting is just as exhausting as the gesticulating.
As the challenge approached its final second, I realised probably should have thought of something profound to say as my first sentence, I’d certainly had enough time to come up with it. Instead, I opted for a series of whoops and cheers, accompanied by some undignified fist pumping. I could speak again! And I used that speech to coo happily over my lovely new bike, complete with handy wicker basket…
All in all I learnt that not being able to speak is far more torturous than I imagined. But I can now say with absolute certainty that a silent yoga retreat is not for me, I like human interaction far too much. To quote the old BT slogan, it’s good to talk.