I'm on the phone with my friend Mary when Hubby walks through the kitchen whistling a happy tune. I interrupt the phone conversation without even excusing myself. I bark out a quick command that has exactly the same tone as though I'm telling the dog to get off the couch. "Stop whistling," I order my husband.
On the other end of the line Mary giggles. "That's right," she says, "you don't allow whistling."
Of course it's not as simple as that . . .
Partly it's because with my history of migraines I have a low tolerance for light and sound. Partly it's because I'm just a bitch about certain things.
A week earlier, Hubby and I had been driving home from a restaurant with Youngest. We'd had a nice dinner, the car was warm and there was a whole string of good old songs on the radio. It was nigh on perfect.
Perfect until Hubby started singing along with the music.
Hubby is tone deaf. He ruins songs by attempting to join in. In other words, Hubby's pleasure turns me into a shrew.
I'm off in another place, harmonizing with the Eagles, when he starts in. His singing makes my eyeballs itch. His persistent and merciless butchering of songs gives me that feeling like my head is going to explode.
But I don't say anything. It's not his fault he can't sing. Ironic, isn't it, that the very thing that made me fall in love with him is the very thing that makes me want to drop him off on the side of the road? I guess it isn't all that ironic. In fact, it's cliche.
Three or four more oldies play and he heartily belts them out. I bite my tongue. Hard. Hubby and Youngest (who I suspect suffers from the same affliction as his father) are having a grand old time. I'm not going to ruin their fun.
I manage to put on my happy face and hum along with them. I'm in a genuinely good mood again when one of my favorite old Cars songs begins to play. I'm quietly singing too when I hear an awful noise. What is that horrible noise? I'm wondering if there's something terribly wrong with our vehicle when I realize . . . the frightening sound is Hubby whistling.
Not only do I despise off key whistling, but I am especially intolerant of whistling in the car. There's no way to escape that noise in such a tiny, closed environment. My family is well aware that car whistling is a line never to be crossed. What's Hubby thinking???????
It's so bad it makes me nauseated. The jollity of the moment is gone. It takes all my strength not to say anything to him. I don't criticize. I don't tell him to stop. I just keep driving and let him whistle his tuneless tune. I want to claw my way out of the moving car . . .
On the other hand . . .
Hubby heard Exile's "Kiss You All Over" on the radio the other day. From the first bass notes he knew it was likely a song I'd loved as a teenage girl and probably still love. And he was right. He knows me that well.
No matter how many of his little habits make me want to run screaming into traffic, I will never be understood and cared for by another human being like I am by him.
Whistling notwithstanding, I think I'll keep him.