By W.R. Jones
Last night I was lying in bed reading a book, The $64 Tomato, about a gardner when a spontaneous happy moment hit me. Or, perhaps it was just a ripple in my brain wave. I broke out in a whistle – attempt. The sound that came out of my mouth was a light whooshing like the air coming out of my bike tire that time I rode to Carpenteria in the 100+ degree sun and ended up laying on the floor of a grocery next to the frozen foods telling someone to call my wife to come get me.
What happened? When did I lose the ability to whistle? Is this the final stage of some terrible disease? As you might guess, my moment of joy was short lived. I squeezed my lips into the perfect whistle shape and blew again. I sounded like a large snake. Sitting bolt upright in shock, I blew again and again while moving my lips seeking the whistle shape. My wife was not even polite enough to contain her laughter.
As a nearly world famous self diagnosing hypochondriac, I think I’ve got slack lip. The tone is gone. When I go to the gym today I will ask if they have small lip barbells. I suppose you have to work the bottom lip standing up and the upper lip standing on your head. Otherwise the barbell is going to roll off. I guess you could partially balance it with the tip of the tongue, but I’m not sure if that is good form. They are always on about FORM at the gym.
I can’t remember if I could whistle after I left the service. I should have tested it then. Maybe there is a Veterans Lip Rehab center somewhere.
I also can’t remember learning to whistle. Is it learned? Maybe grandpa took me outside, “Ok, Billy, today we learn to whistle at the girls.” “Why would we want to do that, grandpa?” “Shut up you little fruit and do as I say.” Grandfather was an upholsterer by trade and used to have a mouth full of tacks when he worked. If that is what it takes to learn to whistle I think I will just hum to the passing ladies.
I’ve got to call my lawyer; someone must be to blame for this tragic loss.