In the early days of my youth I took quite a liking to whistling. Not my own, for I was without the knowledge or skill, but to other peoples'. It tickled me pink to see an old man walking down the street whistling to himself. What greater proof of the possibility of happiness exists? (Ice cream comes to mind, but I think that's more a cause of happiness than evidence.) Being pragmatic, I assumed that if I could whistle surely everyone would think I was happy also. I mean, I was happy, but now everyone would know it. So, I attempted to learn. I asked everyone, I tried to disseminate the mechanics while watching actors in movies, I even tried to read about. To no avail. No matter how pursed my lips were or what position my tongue was in, I simply couldn't whistle. What came out instead was a kind of pathetic wheeze completely lacking in any semblance of tune. I also can't snap my fingers, but if you've ever seen my fingers you may suspect, as I do, that they are simply inadequate in size or heft or bone-age to achieve the task. Anyway, at 18 I gave the whistling thing one last stab. I asked my boyfriend (who came from a whole family of talented whistlers) how to whistle. He explained and less than a minute later I was off. I'm not talking Beethoven, but I can indeed whistle. I won't try to explain what he told me, but let to suffice to say that my years of inferiority were simply a matter of someone explaining in a way that worked for me. More than ten years later, a very similar thing has happened. Three days ago I cooked steak that was edible. A simple thing, so I've been told. But for some reason, both Daniel and I have been heretofore incapable of cooking a decent slab of meat. Not that we haven't tried. I've even bought the most expensive cuts I can find, asked the butcher how to cook it, asked my mother AND my grandmother (both remarkably good cooks, and Jewish mothers (which pre-disposes them to knowing how to do just about anything). To make a long story shorter, I simply followed a recipe exactly. Voila! I can whistle and cook meat. I bet I could even do them at the same time if needed. I am very proud.
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your whole whistling story reminded me of the first time i learned you were whistling impaired, and then of the house you and daniel and peet lived in - i think i helped yous move in and/or paint the walls red, but wasn't around for move-out - and that someone, i wont name names, was always concerned that the other roommates would hear that someone peeing, so always peed on the side of the toilet bowl, but that just inconvenienced the other roommates, because then they had to get extra close to the bathroom door so that they could hear that someone peeing, instead of just casually sitting around listening to the peeing, you know, like those relaxation tapes you get of ocean sounds, with stupid fake seagull sounds dubbed over at regular time intervals. yeah.
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