Over the course of 10 1/2 other months, he never whistles. As in—never, ever, ever, ever. Not once. But when Christmas season arrives, he’s Mr. Music. But only near doors, where his whistling can be heard.
This drives the wife crazy.
We like the mailman. He’s a nice guy with a warm smile and a kind wave. His job, obviously, can be a rough one. Weather. Dogs. Crazy customers. Misplaced envelopes. Complaints. But the whistling … well, something about it rubs us the wrong way. It just seems overly deliberate and obvious; one degree to the left of, literally, singing, “Don’t forget to tip me …” instead of “Then one foggy Christmas eve …” I know … I know—’tis the season, and help a guy out, and blah … blah.
The whistling just seems sorta crappy.