My voice has been gone for a week. People seem to like me more. That stings. I mean, not so badly as my throat does but, you know, still, ouch.

The Rasputin of colds, the virus and its mucus in my head just won't die, no matter how many times I try to shoot it in the face with medicine or drown it in orange juice. There have been many side effects to having my sinuses sidekick my senses daily. In addition to losing track of cough drops, tissues and issues — not to mention being completely thrown by the discovery that we are now in the month of March — I've also lost my voice.

At first, my voice mutated to that of a prepubescent male, cracking often, much to the delight of co-workers. My news reports, which had previously been met with eye rolls or with people's sudden interest in their phones, were now heard by a captive and giggling audience asking me to "say that word again." I would obey, only to have my voice crack on the same word over and over, never to succeed in getting my point across. As a humor writer, this created quite the mental conundrum. On one hand, a captive audience who laughs at everything I say is a dream scenario. On the other, the fact that I received this acclaim without saying a single joke was a bit of an ego punch. Perhaps it's time for a career change. I could play understudy to that kid from "Jerry Maguire." He must be hitting puberty right about now.

CORRECTION: My editor just informed me that he's now 24. I'm going to blame the head cold publicly. Meanwhile, you can find me crying in the closest bathroom, bemoaning my age and searching for wrinkle cream.

Over time, my voice evolved to a deep baritone, which, according to everyone I spoke with, was apparently very sexy. Why men like a woman who sounds like a man, I will never understand. The sensual (read: snot-induced) sounds of my voice were once again met with a captivated audience. People were even willing to stand close to me, throwing caution to the wind when it came to the superbug I was clearly harboring the way Professor Quirrell hid Voldemort on the back of his head. I can't imagine that my superbug would look much more attractive. Come to think of it, after weeks of being sick, I'm not sure I look much more attractive.

The most enjoyable thing about my baritone voice was how interested everyone was in what I had to say. And this time, unlike when my voice was cracking, people could actually understand me. They weren't giggling at the silliness. They weren't entertained without ever having to absorb the point I was struggling to make. My listeners could really understand me and seemed legitimately interested. I began thinking that perhaps my newly acquired audience was not the result of my voice at all. Maybe it was the content of what I had to say that captivated them. It felt good.

Then my voice evolved yet again. Only this time, it was motivated by a throat on fire. Clawing on the inside every time I uttered a word, my sore throat rendered me speechless. I was a Teller without the Penn, a mime without the cool invisible box, Milli Vanilli without the lip-syncing skills. Unlike before, when my every word was hung on, now I hardly spoke a word. One-word sentences, if possible. I feared I would lose the crowd I hard worked so hard for, lose the acclaim my flu-vexed voice had afforded me. Would my co-workers remember that I was a person with valuable things to say when my voice eventually returned?

Last night, I left a 2 1/2-hour meeting after not speaking a word. Heading toward my desk, two co-workers came up, putting their arms around me and saying, with complete sincerity, "You were a real asset in the meeting. Keep it up."

I searched their faces for sarcasm. There was none. I had not spoken, perhaps for the first time ever, and was given my first compliment.

Perhaps there's a lesson in all this.

Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. Check out her column at http://didionsbible.com. To find out more about Katiedid Langrock and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.