Whistlin' Work

Today, while at work, I was called out for whistling. Not in a bad way or anything like that. It is not like I'm going to lose me job over blowing air through pursed lips. Far from it. Quite simply, I was called out for doing something that comes almost naturally to me, a simple mechanical action that I have very little conscious control over. And it wasn't a co-worker, or a supervisor, or someone associated with the establishment I am employed at that felt the need to call me out. Rather, it was noticed by a customer. He was an older gentleman, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties. He wore this strange, urban safari get-up, and, while talking to me, he had a sudden urge to use the bathroom and considered a momentary break in our conversation to be a well enough time to whip it out and urinate while in my company. At a younger age, he had worked with a group of men cut straight from the WWII era. My whistling helped to bring those memories back for him, and he proceeded to sing for me a song that was quite popular with those working men. It went thusly:

Whistle while you work

Hitler is a jerk

Mussolini

Chopped his weenie

Now it doesn't work.

It was the first I had ever heard such a song. He then went to explain to me how refreshing it was to hear somebody whistle while they worked. It helped to demonstrate to him that there were still people out there that were trying there best to make the most out of what they were dealt. And, maybe he was right. I had never truly thought about why I whistle while I work. To tell the truth, I didn't truly start until I began working at my current place of employment. And, maybe that has something to do with it. I know for a fact that it is not for any joyous reason. It is not as if I find great pleasure in my work and must share it with the world. No, I think I whistle as a means of mental therapy. It helps for me to forget that I am stuck within the closed-off walls of Dis. It helps make the workplace depression ease away. It helps to make my miserable days on the job pass by a little faster.

Maybe, one day, I'll be like those seven dwarfs, whistling gaily through forest glens, content at the lot of life I find myself in. But, until then, I will just continue to whistle the pain and misery brought on by working a monotonous, soul-sucking, wretched job that only the fallen angel could have dreamed up in his frozen wasteland of torture and woe, and I will continue until the brightness of my songs clears the fog from my days.

This got me thinking about why I whistle. It certainly isn't for any joyous reason. It's not because I am so enamored by the work I do that I can't help but to express it to the world.