In high school I played guitar and "sang" in a band, and, as we all liked Blondie, we attempted to play one of their songs.  While hammering away at the D and G chords (and fumbling to that tricky B-minor), I had nary a qualm warbling:

 "When I met you in the restaurant, you could tell I was no debutante..."

I write this to say that even back then I was comfortable enough in my masculinity to croon before God and the girls in my high school about my status as a debutante; so I equally have no worries with this morning's earworm.  On the beat, scooping coffee into the filter, I proudly (and loudly) bellowed:

"When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty, will I be rich
Here's what she said to me.

Que Sera, Sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que Sera, Sera,
What will be, will be."

Why Doris Day?  I haven't a clue.  When it comes to the whys an earworm pays a visit, all I can (continue to) croon is:

"Que sera, Sera…. "