“What’s your schedule like? With the voice work?”
“Chaos, mostly. Recording sessions whenever studios have openings, which is usually early morning or late evening. Client calls during school hours. Deadlines that don’t care about soccer practice or parent-teacher conferences.”
“Soccer practice?”
“Hockey practice. Whatever. The point is, my schedule revolves around other people’s schedules, which revolve around other people’s schedules. It’s schedules all the way down.”
She’s making a joke, but there’s real exhaustion underneath it. The kind that comes from trying to manage too many moving pieces without enough help.
“That sounds complicated.”
“That’s parenthood. Everything’s complicated when you’re responsible for keeping two small humans alive and functioning.”
“Is it worth it? All the complications?”
The question seems to surprise her. “Of course. They’re my kids. But it’s not exactly compatible with spontaneity or... whatever this is.”
She gestures between us, and I realize I don’t actually know what this is either. I asked her for coffee, but I didn’t think beyond that. Didn’t consider what comes next or where this is supposed to go.
“What do you think this is?” I ask.
“I have no idea. Do you?”
“Not really.”
We look at each other across the small table, and I can see her trying to figure me out the same way I’m trying to figure her out.
“Tell me about the voice work,” I say, because it feels safer than trying to define whatever’s happening between us. “How’d you get into that?”
“Necessity, mostly. I was a theater major in college, had dreams of Broadway and all that. Then life happened, and I needed something I could do from home.”
“What kind of life?”
“Marriage. Kids. All the things that make pursuing artistic dreams... impractical.”
There’s a story there, one that probably explains why she’s sitting across from me instead of on a stage somewhere. But she doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.
“Do you miss it? The theater stuff?”
“Sometimes. There’s something about being on stage, having that connection with an audience. But voice work has its own rewards. I get to be different characters, tell stories. And nobody cares if I’m wearing sweatpants or if I haven’t brushed my hair.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“I once recorded an entire romance series while looking like I’d given up on life. Spent two weeks breathing sultry dialogue into a microphone while wearing the same pair of pajamas.”
The image that creates in my head is both ridiculous and oddly appealing. Golda in pajamas, hair messy, voice dropping into that lower register that’s been haunting my dreams.
“That’s dedication.”
“That’s single motherhood. You learn to prioritize.”
Single motherhood. Right. Because she’s divorced, with kids, and probably a thousand responsibilities I can’t even imagine.
What the hell am I doing here?
“What about you?” she asks. “What’s it like being a professional athlete? And don’t give me the standard interview answer.”
“Why not?”
