The Voice of Reason

When I was growing up, my voice served me well. It won me public speaking competitions, almost hit the high notes during my solo as Mrs. Luce in my grade 10 production of Little Shop of Horrors, and read my really bad angst-ridden poetry aloud to my English class. In school, my voice got the odd compliment, but for the most part no one really noticed it, including me. When I graduated high school and moved to the big city of Toronto, however, my voice suddenly got a lot of attention.

Within a few days of settling into residence, one of my floor dons was taken aback when I asked him was whether or not he’d be using the washing machine much longer.

“Woah! You’ve got a really unique voice.”

“Oh, um, thanks. Do you mean unique in a good way or a bad way?”

“Oh, in good way! It’s really expressive.”

I thanked him and thought, “Huh. That was weird.”

Later that week at the first and only kegger I went to in residence, I was making small talk with some jock engineering students when one of them interrupted me.

“Okay Girlie, can you start speaking in your real voice, please? You can stop with the fake voice now.”

I was gobsmacked.

“What are you talking about? This is my real voice.”

His eyes went really wide.

“It is? Oh God!”

And then that bastard and his fellow meatheads had the nerve to walk away from me. Never in my life had anyone made such a rude comment about the way I sound. Two weird comments about my voice in one week. What the hell was going on?

I mean, sure I spoke kinda fast and sounded a little breathless from time to time. And, yes, my voice could get a bit squeaky and high-pitched once in a while, but I’m a petite woman with a petite voice box. What do you expect?

As the year went on, the remarks kept coming. A barista said that my voice would be perfect for radio or a podcast. My professors praised my cadence when I narrated short documentaries in my film production class. In our creative writing class, I always got picked first to read the scripts because my voice was so animated. Then there were the comments from the peanut gallery.

A woman at the library mocked something I said in the style of a valley-girl. A hipster fine art student said I sounded like a “yippy chihuahua.” Customers at the pub where I worked asked me how it was legal for a 12-year-old girl to be serving beer, and during a UFC fight night my table informed me that my voice was so high-pitched and annoying it reminded them of Elmo. (Interestingly enough, the women these guys had been hitting on at the table next to them all had very high-pitched sexy baby voices. So clearly, they didn’t mind a high-pitched voice that much.)

People either loved or hated the way I spoke. My voice had become as divisive as cottage cheese or Marmite. Now, do you think that an ultra-nerdy, socially awkward 19-year-old Jenn decided to ignore the haters and focus on the other half of people who really liked her voice?

Nope.

All of this unwanted attention made me extremely self-conscious. I was petrified to open my mouth which made things worse because the anxiety made me speak faster and my voice went even higher. Staying quiet caused problems because I didn’t ask questions in class when I was struggling, and I didn’t make a lot of friends because I was too nervous to speak to people. I was even too afraid to laugh, and I love laughing. My breaking point came at the end of first year when I was having a conversation with a nasally interior design student on my floor. She looked at me exasperatedly and said, “Your voice. It’s just… Ugh!”

I couldn’t take it anymore. When I arrived in the big city, I thought that the bullying I’d been through my whole life would stop and I would finally be accepted for who I am. Instead, I was insulted round the clock by a bunch or morons and spent my nights alone bingeing 30 Rock as I ate extra cheesy vegetarian nachos. If I didn’t adapt and start fitting in, I’d end up dying alone. Desperate times called for desperate measures and I needed to completely transform myself.

My first goal was to give my wardrobe a makeover, but I got really overwhelmed by the amount of research it required. (I was the kinda gal who wore bright pink checkered board shorts and flip flops to a hip night club.) I needed results fast, so I figured that changing my voice would be easy. I was pretty good at mimicking so it should be a piece of cake.

There was no shame in changing my voice in order to be taken more seriously. Sidney Poitier did it, Grace Kelly did it, and evil mad scientist Elizabeth Holmes did it (albeit unsuccessfully). I did some experimenting to figure out what the New Jenn sounded like. I tried going a bit huskier a la Kathleen Turner, but I sounded like I was possessed. Next I looked to Lord of the Rings for inspiration. I attempted Cate Blanchett’s deep and clear voice which didn’t work at all, and neither did Liv Tyler’s soft, very intense whisper.

I needed a change that was noticeable but subtle enough so it didn’t sound like I was trying too hard. Then Eureka! Who has that perfect combination of sounding authoritative, wise, and soothing? Yoga teachers.

Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Every yoga teacher I’d come across had a voice that was calming and trustworthy. Jesus, no wonder so many cults start out in yoga classes. I studied countless YouTube videos to mimic their soothing, measured way of speaking and after a week of practising in front of the mirror and listening to recordings of myself, I was ready to test it out.

The majority of my first summer in Toronto was spent working at the pub and my customers were going to be my guinea pigs. At first it was great. When I spoke slowly in my soothing New Jenn voice, I felt really poised and mature. And it was working. No one was infantilizing me, or interrupting me, or giving me nicknames like Chippy, Zippy, or Skippy. It was amazing.

The New Jenn voice was developed in the late spring when things were slower at the restaurant and it was pretty easy to maintain; however, when the summer came and my shifts got busier, I quickly learned that maintaining the voice on a Friday night when the place was crammed with tourists, drunk Blue Jays fans, and 200 attendees from a belly dancing convention was really tough.

When I breathlessly ran back and forth to my tables as lethal amounts of caffeine coursed through my veins the Old Jenn voice slipped out, a lot. I’d start speaking like a chipmunk on speed then catch myself and quickly switch to my guided meditation voice as I asked them how they wanted their steak cooked. The guests at my table looked at each other with confused expressions on their faces that said, “You’re hearing this, right? It’s not just me?”

Remembering to keep up this ruse was really stressful. The other thing that stressed me out was how much my throat hurt from always speaking in an unnaturally low register, so sometimes I had to slip out of the voice to let it recover for a bit.

Then one busy night towards the end of the summer I’d messed it up a bunch and the nice soccer mom at my table gently whispered, “Are you okay, Sweetie?” I said I was fine and went through the dessert options, but as I described what was essentially diabetes on a plate, I heard how ridiculous I sounded. The New Jenn voice was like bad dub on a foreign film and didn’t suit me at all, so I laid it to rest.

I was so heart-broken and depressed. All summer long I’d dreamt about starting second year with a fresh start and people viewing me with respect and taking me seriously. My yoga teacher pipes were supposed to be my ticket to finally fit in and it was blown to smithereens. I just accepted the fact that I was going to keep getting picked on. Sure enough, soon after I started speaking normally a financial district dumbass at the bar said that my voice was “piercing”. So, I kept messing up his drink order on purpose.

Slowly but surely, I found ways to cope with stupid and nasty criticism. I realized that most of the people who bothered me actually had incredibly boring voices that lacked any form of joy or merriment. At least my voice was expressive and had some pizazz. I tried as hard as I could to focus on the positive comments about my voice, and to remember that quirky voices can work quite well for people. Take Keith Morrison for example. His incredible voice somehow manages to be deep, warm, matter of fact, animated, and delightfully creepy all at the same time. When I hear a guy with an average voice describe 56 stab wounds, it’s just not the same.

Throughout the years I’ve discovered that I’m definitely not the only woman being ridiculed for her voice. On YouTube you’ll find how-to videos for women so they can change their voices to sound more professional, and you’ll also find panel discussions with female radio and podcast hosts discussing cruel comments they’ve received. A simple Google search will give you countless articles about the perils of “up-speaking”, having “vocal fry”, or the perils of just using our voices in general.

Nowadays, I’m much more comfortable with how I sound and the positive recognition my voice gets definitely outweighs the negative. Sometimes when I’m anxious I get a little self-conscious about my voice, but it doesn’t last for long. I’m an associate producer in TV now and if I’m doing a serious interview I make a conscious effort to speak slowly and I’ll deepen it a bit so I don’t accidentally give off the impression I’m taking their story lightly.

Look, some people have really distinctive and/or irritating voices. Doing impressions or making jokes that gently poke fun at them is fine with me. On the other hand, if you are completely grossed out by the way someone sounds just let the voice inside of your head make that insult. Don’t say it out loud.

I still don’t get it. I’m stunned that my very average-sounding voice gets any attention at all. It’s the way I was born and if you don’t like it, deal with it.

Health Nuts

The average person’s New Year’s Resolutions will be abandoned by Jan 19th. By the time this blog post comes out, most gym memberships have been cancelled, gym bags are collecting dust, and the Lululemon compression pants bought with Christmas gift cards have turned into pyjamas that makes a person’s butt look more toned than it actually is.

In my mid-20s, I was surprised to discover that working out - especially doing intense workouts like bootcamps - makes me really happy. This was quite shocking because all my life I was a weakling, uncoordinated drama nerd. I was so bad at sports that the only reason my high school gym teacher wanted me to join the cheerleading squad was because I’m “loud and enunciate really well”. I’m proud to say that my fitness resolutions have always made it past 19 days; however, I still have a very complicated on-again/off-again relationship with fitness.

Fitness and I tend to make it to the three month mark aka “The Honeymoon Phase” of our relationship. By the Honeymoon Phase, we start drifting apart because something always happens. We have different goals, opposing schedules, there’s someone else getting in the way (of the equipment I want to us), etc., etc.

And on Jan 1st, 2020, I found myself starting this process all over again. In the six weeks prior to New Year’s, I had a stomach flu, a sinus infection, and a cold that derailed my fitness plans. I did the ceremonial print-out of my meal and workout plans, but the enthusiasm and determination I used to have when I would start back up again wasn’t there. I stared at the weekly diet of egg whites and sweet potatoes, and the disgusting amount of

bicycle crunches I had to do and thought, “Why bother?” I had done this so many times before, and nothing ever worked. Why bother? Is it even worth trying again?

For instance, how was I going to find the time to work out in the first place? Sure working out is easy when you have a fixed schedule, but what about the times when you’re dealing with a crisis at work, or your microwave explodes, or it’s so cold outside yetis are roaming the streets? Due to my job, working out at 5 AM is actually much better for me, but no matter how determined I am the night before, the minute the alarm goes off I turn into a screaming 4-year-old who’s just been told they have to leave the McDonald’s Play Place and head off to Grandma’s. All I can think of is, “I don’t wanna go!” The thought of leaving my warm bed and enduring five seconds of cold air before I put my housecoat on is too much to bear. So, I hit the snooze button and by the seventh time I hit the snooze button, sure enough, I don't have time to work out and need to get ready for work.

What about the underwear situation? Ya know, fretting about whether or not to wear something that’s comfortable but the panty lines are so visible I look like a superhero wearing underwear over their tights? And do I want to deal with sports bras that are so sturdy it’s like my chest has been vacuum sealed?

If you go to the gym, you’re faced with the arduous task of trying to find a Skrillex-free workout playlist on Spotify. Don’t be fooled when the playlist says hip-hop or indie rock. Chances are he’ll pop up on it.

Then, they are the gym rats. Do I want to deal with people at the gym? Getting pointers from the super fit 62-year-old next to me is a wee bit intimidating. (After getting back up on the horse so often, you’d think that I’d remember how to do basic moves like push-ups, squats, and crunches, but I always end up as the uncoordinated, gawky girl from gym class). No matter what time of day I go, the machines I need tend to be in use, and if I do find one that’s available, it’s usually next to a grunting guy with horrific b.o.. Also, I’m not particularly a fan of the super loose, nipple exposing muscle tanks some men wear.

And most importantly, do I want to deal with constantly comparing myself to other women at the gym? No matter how accomplished I feel on my workout, I always find myself noticing the gazelle on a treadmill nearby who seems to have the perfect combination of a feminine hourglass figure that’s also muscular but not too muscular, is lean without being too thin, and they’re tall but not too tall. I basically notice all the women at the gym who look like Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman. It’s a miracle I haven’t fallen off the treadmill when I’ve stopped mid-run to enviously glare at these beauties.

I’ve begun my fitness journey many, many times, and it’s been so long and harrowing, it’s starting to feel more like a Lord of the Rings style quest than simply trying to tone up; however, this time around I think it will be different. I think.

In 2019, I was very fortunate to speak with some incredibly inspirational people. I met a retired police officer who broke almost every bone in his body when he was pushed out of a window during an attack. With a lot of patience and persistence, he made a full-recovery and he’s in the best physical shape of his life. I also got to speak with a man who survived being lost for three days on the Appalachian Trail during a severe snowstorm. He was so cold, he could barely dial 9-1-1. But he survived and went back out to finish the hike one month later.

So, I’m going to shut up and stop whining about how hard it is to be cold for five seconds and the difficulties of selecting underwear. At least it’s five seconds and not five days, and at least the underwear is fresh and warm. And, yes, having senior citizens correct my form isn’t my cup of tea, but at least my body isn’t broken.

Things could be a lot worse. Working out - even if it’s your 342nd attempt at it - is doable and isn’t that bad after all; however, the grunting at the gym is still terrible. The grunting needs to stop.

A Cynical Cinephile

It’s the dawn of a new decade and a lot of “top 10 movies of the 2010s” lists came out just before New Year's. When I was chatting with some friends about their top picks, it took me quite a while to figure out mine. I never thought in a million years I would say this, but I don’t really like going to the movies anymore.

Going to the movies used to be absolutely magical to me. I loved being in that darkened space and being transported into a different world. I loved the collective experience of watching something with an audience. I loved feeling a Danny Elfman soundtrack rumble in my chest, even though all of his soundtracks kinda sound the same. My life completely revolved around movies. Literally, I studied Film in University and sought out to have a career in filmmaking.

Even when I hit my teens, grew into a film snob, and preferred indie flicks, I still loved going to the theatre and seeing mainstream movies. Back in the day, there were times when you could go see a Hollywood movie and it wouldn’t be total crap. The Exorcist, Goodfellas, When Harry Met Sally, The Others, Moulin Rouge, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Shaun of the Dead, and No Country for Old Men were mainstream Hollywood movies that were pretty good.

But over the last decade, movies and going to the movies have really gone downhill. Sure once in a while you’ll find gems like Get Out but they’re few and far between. And I’m not the only one who feels this way.

According to a Bloomberg article called “Hollywood Had a Terrible 2017”, in 2017 movie theatre attendance was the lowest it had been in a generation. In the New York Times article “How Will the Movies (As We Know Them) Survive the Next 10 Years?”, journalist Kyle Buchanan assembled a think tank of industry movers and shakers to get their insights on the future of going to the movies. The general consensus is that with so much streaming content available, it’s really challenging to get people to put on pants and leave the house to spend money on anything that isn’t a blockbuster, and even that’s not a guarantee. But I have some theories of my own as to why we aren’t going to the movies anymore.

Firstly, trailers really suck now. When I was little, I would be genuinely stressed on the ride to the theatre because I was worried we would miss the trailers. They had that classic trailer-voice-over-guy whose voice was that perfect combo of being authoritative and dramatic, yet soothing like a wise grandpa. He would list all of the award-winning actors and deliver that same passion to the loser actors who hadn’t won anything. It would have been nice to have heard a trailer-voice-over-woman for once, but nowadays, no one narrates them. Sure, we have title cards, but it’s not the same.

Trailers also used to have a variety of music, but now, they’re all filled with extremely slowed-down versions of happy pop songs - usually used ironically to contrast scenes from a gripping political drama or horrific images from the newest movie in the Saw universe. Cutting the trailer to the beat of the music is a big thing, and it drives me crazy. If I saw it once in a while, it would be okay, but every action movie trailer has a sequence of shots where someone is running or shooting a gun or a building is crumbling to the beat of “dun, dun, dun!”

And has anyone noticed that, for some strange reason, a lot of trailers have an ominous “Bomp! Bomp! Bomp!” sound that’s like a cross between a tuba, clanking metal, and a space-age foghorn? What drives me even crazier is that virtually none of these films take place on water or on a coastline, therefore not requiring the sound of a weird foghorn!

Over the last decade, I’ve also found movies in theatres to be just plain boring. Originality has kind of gone out the window. There are way too many remakes of my childhood favourites. I’m sorry, but even with the combined amazingness of Donald Glover and Beyonce, I didn’t really like The Lion King. It was flat. Totally, totally flat. Then there are the sequels! My God, the sequels! The amount of films that take place in the same, yet different superhero universes is staggering. Dear Studios, I can’t keep up with nor do I want to go see the sequels to a prequel’s sequel. Also, if one more movie takes place during the ’80s, I will barf.

Lastly, movie theatres themselves are weird. There aren’t nearly as many people there during the busy weekend evening showtimes. Over the last few years - sometimes even with big blockbusters - I’d say any time I’ve gone to the theatre it’s only about one third full. It feels so lonely and just off. Experiencing a movie with a big audience is so much fun, and today with social media we can have that experience to an extent with everyone talking about something they just streamed, but I miss being in a packed theatre and hearing everyone’s laughter or gasps. One of my favourite movie-watching experiences ever was when I saw Shaun of the Dead with my sister, and a man had the most contagious laugh, making the funny bits even funnier.

There are even fewer people working in the theatres too. I always got a kick out of getting recommendations from the cheese-eatin’ high school kids at the ticket counter, and now I have to deal with robots to get my tickets.

Getting a snack is a completely bizarre experience. Some theatres have uber-expensive pick-your-own candy bins like the kind you’d see bulk superstores, which is totally stupid because everyone knows you buy candy in bulk somewhere else then smuggle it into the theatre. While purchasing your candy you can also buy everything from stuffed animals to T-shirts to mugs to movie socks and movie blankets. Socks and blankets! Instead of theatres simply turning down the temperature to something that’s tolerable and energy-efficient, they are selling $20 blankets to movie-goers. Hollywood has always been focused on making money, but now it’s really, really focused on making money.

James Cameron has four Avatar sequels in the works, with Avatar 2 scheduled for a December 2021 release. He seems pretty excited about them. I’m not, and I doubt others will want to get out of their sweatpants, travel to a theatre, and put on 3D glasses coated with other people’s cooties.

There’s a kind of sadness I feel knowing that this amazing experience we’ve had since the invention of film might go away. I want my children and my children’s children to feel like they’re travelling through outer space or a horrific serial killer is lunging at them. When they’re an appropriate age, of course.

I’m trying to be optimistic. Maybe movie theatres will operate more like theatrical theatres and they’ll only be open on certain occasions or maybe they’ll only be open in the evenings. And when the robots take over, maybe they’ll be programmed to be like awkward high school kids. Ya never know.

I’ve lost count the amount of times I’ve said, “Nah, let’s wait ’til it comes on Netflix.” And believe me, I love the convenience of bingeing a bunch movies curled up next to my boyfriend, eating snacks that didn’t make us take out a second mortgage on our house, but I miss being in a darkened theatre. When I’m in my own home I get distracted by the dust bunnies I can see out of the corner of my eye, the dripping tap, or the smell of the dinner I burned earlier. Plus, if I’m watching a movie on Netflix at my parents’ place when I visit for Christmas, there’s nowhere to hide or look away if a sex scene comes on. If I was in a darkened theatre, it would help with things like that.

In the meantime, I’m still going to go to the movies. Not as often, and I’ve started only going to matinees and cheap Tuesdays, that way I don’t waste money if something sucks. I’m not going to give up on Hollywood yet; however, I will never buy a movie theatre blanket. I will smuggle in my own blanket in addition to the 1 Lb of bulk Reese’s Pieces in my purse.