Wolf Whistle Update

When I was about seven, everyone in the world knew how to whistle besides me. Seriously. My whole first grade class, my friends, never mind my father who could summon us kids from the farthest corners of ur100-acre farm with his piercing “whee-oo-wheet!” (That’s tech-speak for his distinctive whistle.)

Whistling was the bane of my existence. I puckered and practiced every day for absolutely EVER.

And when, finally and miraculously, I learned to whistle, I continued to practice every spare moment—and since I had to walk half a mile to the bus stop, I had plenty of time to perfect my pucker. I learned to whistle every song in every musical I knew. I whistled piano concertos (hard, because it’s difficult to choose a single note melody line) and flute pieces (better, because the flute plays only a single note at a time, but the range can be tricky), and all my choir pieces.

I became a really, really good whistle. Not that there’s a lot of call for expert whistlers (ooh—wouldn’t that make an excellent character quirk?) although I was psyched when I learned that someone whistled part of a Billy Joel piece.

But I digress.

The point it: I got really, really good and, miraculously, everyone else in my life forgot how to whistle. Suddenly, I was the only one I knew who whistled. I was a surprise to the hordes of non-whistlers. An anomaly.

You might think there’s a lesson coming about perceptions versus reality, or how kids can be self-conscious or some thing. There’s not.

I just wanted to point out that, now that I’m adult, the scenario is repeating itself with respect to the wolf whistle (you know, two fingers in the mouth, piercing, turns heads.) Although I’m working on it, I’m still unable to accomplish this whistle while apparently everyone around me can. Amazing, isn’t it?

Go figure. :) Cheryl