Farting In Bed with Boys
I wouldn’t say that I’m prudish. I wear my hair down and enjoy the occasional raunchy convo with the girls. I’m never one to scoff at a joke made in poor taste because those jokes are usually the funniest.
The thing is, I try to never, under any circumstance, pass gas in front of another human being.
Of course, there is the occasional misstep. Like, when one is regrettably sick, and the gas comes rushing out of you like the cross-current air of two open doors. Or when you are in yoga class, and that goddamn Downward Dog pushes the pent up air down and out of you in an uncontrollable fashion. Then you’re left with having to find a new yoga studio because you don’t know whether or not telling the impossibly trim and fit girl beside you that it was actually a queef is better than the fact that she thinks you’ve farted mere feet away from her blonde pony-tailed head.
However, for the most part, my gas removal is a private affair.
Er, of course, that was before I decided to write an internet story on the subject.
My mom has a similar vein of thought regarding gas passing, which I am sure has something to do with my current stance on the matter. Farting was something Mom never did other than in the privacy of a washroom. This, obviously, was in fear of the dreaded shart.
I understand that this all sounds a little unbelievable, but I wouldn’t lie to you, at least not regarding the serious business of wind breaking.
Back in our teenage years, if my brother, Dustin, or I would let blow, say, in the living room while watching Seinfeld, Mom’s reaction would go something like this, “Jesus Christ, stop doing that in public!” I would look around to find my dad sprawled out on the couch, either sleeping or pretending to sleep because he, smartly, didn’t want to get involved in this argument. Her idea of “public” was us. The family. “That’s disgusting. If you have to pass gas, excuse yourself and go to the washroom.”
I seemed to be the only one with whom these farting scoldings stuck. The last time I saw my brother, Dustin, he literally farted on my face. He sat his ass directly onto my head, which was lying comfortably on the couch and let rip. Yes, we are in our thirties.
To this day, I cannot fart in front of another human being without feeling a deep and glorious pang of shame and degradation.
I have been told, time and time again, that it is unhealthy to withhold farts.
Yet, I cannot stop.
I cannot bring myself to cut one even when it is just my husband and me binging the entire series of Parks and Recreation for the tenth time this year. I do not allow the slightest puff to escape that region of my body while driving in the car with my children.
After giving birth to my daughter, I was on some pretty severe pain killers for a kidney infection. As I groggily looked over to Jamie on the other side of the hospital room, my body betrayed me and let out a long and drawn out drone of decrepitude.
I noted my husband’s eyes widen with a look of surprise and then soon to follow revulsion from the smell that came quickly afterward.
“Oh no,” I moaned as I tried, unsuccessfully, to turn over in the hospital bed.
“It’s okay, babe,” He tried, but I put my hand up in the air to ward off his attempt at making this right.
Recently, now that I am well past the stage of child birthing, I have kept my strict regimen of non-farting in public locales. As Mom would say, “Any place can be considered public if there is another sentient human being there.” Even the family pet is questionable. So I keep that in mind, and if the need to relieve myself comes along, I politely remove my butt from said communal quarters and do my business in private — hoping to the good lord baby Jesus that it isn’t loud enough for the people in the next room to hear.
It really isn’t that difficult, and I’ve got to say, I wholeheartedly appreciate Mom’s stance on passing gas in public. It is a necessary bodily function that in no way needs to be glorified by unnecessary jokes and teasing.
A beautifully prepared lamb roast dinner sits before me as I enjoy a glass of wine with my husband. I am looking lovingly into his sky blue eyes, thinking about how romantic this evening is. I also feel that beautiful buzz one gets when they’ve drunk precisely the right amount of wine.
He smiles that little half-smile that made me fall in love with him over fifteen years before, and my heart gives way to a flutter that I once thought was reserved for only the young. Jamie grasps my hand from across the table and says, “the trumpets are sure going to be blowing tonight, Hun.”
At first, I do not understand. Is this some weird sexual innuendo that I’m not privy to? Is he referring to some parade event of which I am not aware?
I give my husband a quizzical look as I shovel a bit more lamb and pour a touch more wine into my face hole.
“Your bedtime trumpets,” he says, full out laughing now. “Anytime you’ve drunk a bit too much wine or eat red meat, you are a farting machine in bed.”
It is at this moment that my world implodes. How can I possibly argue this fact? So instead, I say, slowly, “What do you mean?”
“Don’t be upset,” Jamie is quick to say when he sees my ever reddening face, “I think it’s so cute. Usually, as soon as you fall asleep, you start farting these tiny adorable farts.” He then adds after a moment of my stunned silence, “Well, they aren’t always tiny. But it’s still cute.”
I’m pretty sure this is the worst news my husband has ever given me.
I am mortified and immediately start wondering who else I have inadvertently farted in front of while in an unconscious state. It is almost as though my entire self-image has been brutally torn down and trampled over in this one moment of learning such information.
So here we are, a 35-year-old woman, drunk on wine, belly full of lamb and having just been given the soul-crushing news that she is not as well-kempt as she thought. I suppose I could deny such facts. I could put this new information as far from my mind as possible and continue living my life in stunning ignorance. Really if it’s only Jamie that knows about this, it can’t be that harmful, right?
But then it occurs to me, why would this be harmful in the first place? It’s farting. A bodily function that literally everyone must succumb to in a lifetime. Why am I so opposed to this act? Maybe it’s time for this thirty-five-year-old to embrace her cheese cutting inclinations and liberate the necessity of this human characteristic.
This is not to say one might find me lifting my leg resplendently at the next parent council meeting and blowing up the joint. However, I think I’m finally at the point in my life where letting a few stinkers slips in front of the people I love won’t result in utter and total mortification.