Wednesday, December 01, 2004

Me under the knife again (or rather, laser)



(yes, I know what it looks like. But it's not. Please read on...)

Dating Jake was the biggest incentive for me to take the gym more seriously. Lying next to a body carved by angels out of the finest of marbles can either make you envious or determined. I chose the latter.

So for the last month and a half I have been pumping the iron with a ferocity unmatched since the time that Hercules was a regular member of Fitness First. Only I choose Cannons because the City branch has an amazing spa which is perfect for soothing the burn and the clientele is also little bit more easy on the eye (hook-up opportunities are certainly not out of the question).

The one thing that I have not been able to get back on is the treadmill. Treadmills and I have had a complicated relationship, ever since I was at the gym at Uni and spotted my friend Steve in the mirror. I turned my head to say "Hi" and the posture imbalance ensured that I was promptly and uncerimoniously deposited in a mangled heap on the floormat behind me.

However, on the whole I do persevere with the treadmill, simply because it is the only way that I am going to get an ass that won't quit. But the reason that I can't do it right now has something to do with the intubation procedure I underwent earlier in the year. Without going into too much detail, the tube that they put down my throat damaged one of my vocal cords so that it is stuck in the middle. The result has been two fold. The plus side is that my voice is much deeper and throatier, much to the delight of some of my girlfriends who ring my voicemail with the simple hope of hearing my dulcet tones (Katie at Inca actually alerted the office girls and whenever I call them, they're like "Hi Chris," in their most seductive voice. It's not working girls!)

The down side is that I have a restricted airway in my throat which means that after vigoruous exercise I can literally be gasping for breath. A minute on the treadmill and I am blue in the face.

Last week I went to the hospital for a check up and the doctor told me that the only way to correct this was surgery. It's a twenty minute general anaesthetic procedure where they use a laser to shy away the vocal chord that is stuck in the middle. It's a fairly minor procedure and I'll only need a couple of days recovery. But there is a problem - the procedure could change my voice yet again - not the tone or pitch, but I might have a voice similar, as the doctor put it, to Patrick Duffy in Dallas (whisper, "Pam. Pam. I love you Pam.")

I explained that my job means that I often have to do a lot of speaking, on the phone and in meetings, and a quiet, whispery voice is not gonna be great. Also we all know how much I like to make myself heard. So the doctor has referred me to the best throat surgeon in the world. Actually I'm lying. The best throat surgeon in Britain. In Brighton to be specific. So sometime in the next month I will be taking a trip to Brighton to have my cords looked at followed by a little procedure and hopefully some yummy hospital ice cream and jello.

It's funny - the friends that I have told this to look at me in horror. But things like this just don't bother me. I just want to be fixed. Like the other day my friend Louise was telling me about how to file bankruptcy and while any normal person would balk at the idea, I was all like, "Hmmm...tell me more..."

Priorities, priorities...

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