The Voice of Authority
Too many hours of my life have been spent pursuing the perfect purse.
The perfect purse is one that is small and light and unobtrusive and has the capacity to hold everything vital to my extreme need for comfort: ID and credit cards, cash, dental floss, lip color, tissues, large barrette in case my hair bugs me, OTC painkiller, keys, antique-cool-looking keys that don’t unlock anything but I love them and must have them with me, migraine meds, bottle of water, notebook, pens, highlighters, cell phone, hairbrush, anti-bacterial hand cleaner, book, eyeglass cleaner, hand lotion and a few extra pens in case one runs out of ink. (I’ve given up wearing sunglasses, but that’s another story.)
Yesterday, I went looking for yet another purse. I need one because I’m starting a new job and it will require me to “interact” face-to-face more, meaning I might have to go to lunch with co-workers more than once a month in order to be “engaged” with the rest of the team. The majority of my co-workers are male and they glide easily to the cafeteria with cell phones hooked to belts and wallets in hip pockets.
I do not want to look like a dork lugging a suitcase across campus. I could carry just a wallet, but then I have to juggle wallet and cell phone and beverage and food and utensils. Along with this, I’m expected to be casually chatting about technology or business while juggling, and since technology isn’t my first love, it requires a larger chunk of my brain to discuss and I just can’t manage looking out for wallet and cell phone and lunch while speaking intelligently about the advantages of our mission critical servers, or whatever.
For the first time ever, I took my husband on the purse-hunting journey.
I paused by the first rack, lifted a small purse and unzipped the outside compartment. Instantly a sales clerk was at my side, offering to lift it off the rack, remove the crumpled shape-holding paper and check sale prices.
Hello? I’ve bought many purses at this store. I have never had a clerk offer to help. In fact, I usually have to hunt through several departments to find someone that will allow me to pay for the purse.
Paranoid-cranky-feminist alert: Could it be … the man?
Instantly, my mind ran amuck. She’s only helping because she sees the man and she imagines the man is more likely to spend money and she sees that I’m dithering over large vs small, and she sees that I sent my husband back to the car for my new notebook to ensure it will fit in the tiny, delicate purse, and she thinks the man will force a decision now, and that the man might even be willing to buy me three purses just to get out of the store and let me experiment with payload for the rest of my life in the privacy of my home.
I was annoyed. Very. And further annoyed when she rang up the purchase and said, “I’m glad you finally made a decision.” Urges toward violence lurked — I wanted to swing the delicate purse and slap it against her head. I signed the electronic pad, smiled and said, “thank you.” 
But wait. I can’t count the times I’ve said to my husband, “You call, a man’s voice carries more authority and they won’t give you the runaround.” And it works.
What is it about the male voice? I adore men’s voices, the smooth, deep, soothing timbre that vibrates through my bones. Especially my husband’s voice. When we were first married, he often called me at work and deliberately turned on his salesman charm to croon, “Hello, Cathryn. How are you today?” It made me smile every time. It still does.
So what is it? I saw this during the 2008 US presidential election. I was and am a huge admirer of Hilary Clinton, but she sounded shrill. Many of the US congresswomen sound shrill and there’s a lack of je ne said quoi — they don’t inspire the same confidence.
What does this mean, fellow females? What does it mean for a writer’s voice? Nothing? Everything?
I just hope it doesn’t turn upside down!
