Call it a curse trapped in a blessing’s body: I was born with a voice that screams “I deliver unpleasant information in a calm yet urgent fashion.” I, myself, did not dictate the path my life would take; rather it was the natural monotone that I’ve so dutifully carried with me since the tender age of 14. And so, I stand before you now, a full-grown man whose verbal inflection you sure recognize. I am the man who quickly warns you of all possible side-effects at the end of a prescription drug commercial; I am the man who urges pregnant women and those with high blood pressure and kidney problems to abstain from riding the rollercoaster; and I am the man who advises you to drink responsibly at the conclusion of all otherwise uplifting beer commercials. A fun-ruiner, one might say. A benevolent informant, another may counter. A noble servant to the people, if I may get a word in edge-wise.

Allow me a moment to impress you, as you no doubt remember me from one of my greater works. If I were Vladimir Nabokov, I’d call it my Lolita. But, that’s just me. Rewind to the day that I became a household name: an otherwise pleasant November afternoon were it not for the semi-darkness of my mild depression. I was virtually unemployed at the time—living off of royalties from my last performance in a Celebrex commercial. Dry-mouth this, sleeplessness and possible liver failure that. Yada, yada, yada, I’m in, I’m out, but am I satisfied? No. And thus, up until that fateful autumn afternoon, I lived the life of a displeased grade-B actor—eating brownie mix, weeping softly to the tunes of The Barenaked Ladies, and fighting with my not-so-trophy wife. Then came the phone-call that catapulted me into stardom.

As it turns out, I had landed a gig for the prescription weight-loss pill, Xenical. Nobody wanted to touch the side effects. They were new . . .bold . . . a fresh breed of undesirable adverse effects that were about to enter the public arena. Dare I say, these side effects were Avant Garde? The pharmaceutical company needed a cat that could take risks. Well “me-ow” I said, as I took the weight of the world upon my shoulders and agreed to do the job that no other easy-voiced mama’s boy could handle. Try saying “while using this drug, you may experience gas with oily discharge” without so much as a nervous chuckle. I dare you. Now try selling that idea; masking the grotesque with a voice that beckons the audience to “take heed,” yet still evokes the type of tranquility that only the voice of God himself could shatter.

I became a celebrity overnight. From that day forward, it was my voice the children on the playground imitated; my voice that doctors strove to emulate while holding back unprofessional girlish giggles in midst of grave discussions. I had a gift. True. But I had known that since the day my voice quit on me during a solo in church choir. Moses had parted the seas of my larynx one Sunday morning, and drowned all dreams of a future in Olympiad gymnastics.

“When Israel was in Egypt Laaaand,” I sang with the grace of, say, one gold-medal winner Paul Hamm. “Let my people go—OH.” And I finished with the fully developed bass of a mild-mannered John Wayne. A force to be reckoned with.

“Not to worry, fellow church congregants,” I addressed my pew-ed audience as they grew restless. ‘I’m merely experiencing a swift transition from boyhood to adolescence. I may experience mood swings, hormonal imbalances, migraine headaches and constipation. Even though I don’t have a history of high cholesterol, I may find myself at a heightened risk for cardiovascular malfunctions. Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, if symptoms persist, I will consult my physician about it.” And just like that, they were pacified. I had found my calling.

But in the end, my story, like that of so many others, is really a tale of hubris. Trusty hubris. Fast forward to the present. I’m on top of the world and I’m coming home with some chocolate covered cherries and that pair of Uggs the old ball-n-chain’s been nagging me about. It’s our fourth anniversary. I waltz into my million-dollar estate, walk upstairs to the master’s quarters and find the woman I married in the arms of Movie-Trailer Announcer Guy. “Passionate lovemaking: Coming soon to a bedspread near you!” he’s bellowing as I throw the door open in one of my rare moments of vehemence. So I did the only thing there was to do. I pistol-whipped the bastard with an Ugg and told my wife: “I’m not giving up on us! If Bill and Hillary could do it, by God, we can too! Void where prohibited!”

But nay, dear friends. For once in my life, my smooth talking didn’t solve anything. The old lady sat me down and taught me a thing or two about love.

“Movie-Trailer Announcer Guy is exciting, but you’re all dry-mouth and vomiting. Everything that Movie-Trailer Announcer Guy shows me is ‘must see!’ Everything he tells me is ‘a harrowing tale of love and loss.’ Every restaurant we enter is ‘starring me!’ You and I, baby, we had a good run, but my blood pressure’s high, I’m lightheaded and it ain't cuz of those sample Vicodin that you brought over either. So you can take your Uggs, because you’re gonna need ‘em as you walk out of that door. Forever.”

“You’ll rue the day,” I told her once I regained the even-reverberation of my voice box. “If you’re going to be such a Negative Nancy about safety and caution, then I’ll simply take my business elsewhere.” And so I put on the snug-fitting Uggs just to spite her, and I carried myself right to the arms of Parents: The Anti-Drug lady. She’s a real doll. And our relationship is full of irony.