Last night, I farted in front of my husband Davy. Like, for the first time.
In the nearly three years Davy and I have known each other, I managed never to emit gas from my anus while in the same room with him. I am hoping it’s at least another three years before I ever do it again. And it’s not that I have a problem with anuses. Anuses need love too.
But when I’m doing something with my anus, in Davy’s presence, I’d prefer it to be voluntarily. Last night was not voluntary, but more a result of having eaten too much fried food and then bending over at an inopportune moment and voilà. The beginning of the end.
And I realize there are people who feel the same way, and those who are on the far extreme, and all sorts of platforms on fart in between. There’s the:
~ “I fart, s/he farts, we all fart for more farts and we love it, woohoo, no big deal”, type people.
~ “I fart, s/he doesn’t fart, I don’t care, woohoo, no big deal”, type people.
~ “I sometimes fart, s/he sometimes farts, it happens”, type people.
And then there are those like me. The “I can’t ever fart, he sometimes farts,” type of freak. Really, I’d rather it just not happen. But it happened.
We were sitting on the sofa watching Scandal, and as one scene was cutting away to the next I’d reached over to grab my drink off the coffee table. Apparently I reached too far and before I could stop myself, two thirds of a fart got out. It sounded like a kazoo times a thousand, at least to me. And as if there was a magnetic force hurling my back into the sofa, I chose to forego my drink and shrink into the sofa, and sat there stunned. Davy sitting right next to me did not make a sound, and when I turned my bulging eyeballs in his direction I saw he was staring straight at the television at Olivia Pope and not at his gassy wife.
I thought I was in the clear but then I smacked myself out of my fantasy. There was no way Davy had not heard that ghastly fart. I looked at him again, this time actually turning my head, and I saw right away Davy’s mouth twitch. I threw my hands up to my face and wailed and moaned while Davy laughed. It all but lasted forty seconds from fart to finish. But I will never forget it. And hope to never repeat it. No more talking about it, this 540-word blog is enough.
You don’t even want to know how long it took me to poop with Davy physically in the same house with me at the time of poop. I can’t help how I’m wired. I attribute this to my mother, who has so many unwritten rules on love and marriage she’d need a lot more tablets than Moses could ever carry in two arms.