When I am having a bad day, it’s easy to have a lazy day. It’s easy to fall into the trap of the black hole of the Internet, and read non-important stuff. Like this amazing article about a sweet couple who shared a fart-secret for twenty-five years.
But, it reminded me of a similar story that happened to me, that I thought would be fun to share with my loyal readers and friends, and remind us all that we are equal in the eyes of the gastrointestinal gods. Folks, we all fart. They all stink. And, it’s okay.
Years ago, before I had my amazing husband, I had a pretty decent boyfriend. We were together many years, and I was happy. I wasn’t a great girlfriend because I was pretty immature, and despite being a nice girl, I didn’t know how to be a true partner to someone else. I was needy and lonely, and living in an abusive family, and I didn’t know how to be myself yet. In short, I was twenty.
But, on one of our early dates, we went to a carnival at, what I think, was my sister’s junior high, but I might be mis-remembering the location. All I know was that there was one of those blow-up bouncy castles near some of the games. I distinctly remember the motor, and the humming sound. Thank god for the humming sound, because it was gloriously loud enough to muffle the indigestion.
As my tummy rumbled, and I strained like the dickens to hold back the deluge of gas that was pressing at the gates. I knew it was going to be a losing battle; so, I let those babies rip, and prayed that the ensuing explosion would be both silent and scentless. It was neither. I could feel the rattle, and I’m surprised the energy didn’t propel me across the room. But, that fantastic bounce-house motor masked the rumble.
I had a preschool teacher once, who let some gas go, when she thought we were all settled down at nap-time. Not a rule-follower, I was wide awake, of course, and I’d rolled over and saw her do the walk-and-fart, as she passed by my cot. The image of her linen pants, literally bubbling up around her behind, which was lined up with my eye-level is burned in my memory. It’s always made me wonder how many people are keyed into my butt, not because of my glorious ass, but because I might have had cheese that day. I always think of her when I fart in public, and I’m sure I did then, because I wonder if someone “noticed” the bumpy pants. I’m sure that day was like a pants bubble explosion.
The relief that the sound was masked was only momentary, because the smell only took seconds to waft across the entire area. People in a ten-foot radius were looking at one another, and might as well have been screaming, “Gas! Gas! Gas!” This wasn’t a mere fart. People were mumbling to one another about food spoilage at the cafeteria window. Someone in a line two stalls over said something about the smell. It. Was. Bad.
I was mortified.
Did this new man of mine know?
I looked over, and he said, “I think that bounce-house motor is malfunctioning. What do you think? It smells weird.”
“Yeah. I think so too.” If I could whistle, which I can’t, I’d have done that slick thing that you do when you whistle like you’re getting away with something. But, then again, my boyfriend thought my ass smelled like a malfunctioning motor. Strangers, twenty-feet away thought it.
Then, once it had been said aloud, the discussion spread. It wasn’t just him and I that agreed the motor was malfunctioning, the people behind us in line agreed. Then, the people behind them agreed, and so on. Soon, it was an assertion. Thereafter, the people working the bounce-house were checking the motor.
And, why wouldn’t they check the motor? Whatever was causing my gas wasn’t clearing up with one breaking of wind. I was tooting away to my heart’s content, now that I had a cover-story, which certainly wasn’t improving the smell. Alas, there was nothing wrong with the motor, which shocked them, as the smell was pretty rancid for a functioning motor. Hmm, what could it be, then?
Whelp, we’d better go home, I thought. My cover’s about to be blown. So, we did. I didn’t want to hang out at a sketchy junior high fair with a bounce-house that may or may not be functioning properly, with a motor that may or may not blow at any time. My only concern now was making it home without farting in the car, and leaving the same, identifying smell behind me. Just twenty more minutes or so, and I was home-free.
Ah, fart-lies, the basis of any good relationship.
Not to worry, I told him later, and he thought it was one of the funniest things he ever heard. A girl’s fart that was so bad that it cleared a junior high gym? Not too shabby, really. It’s a damn good story for the books, if you ask me. I’ve not had one like that in years. Maybe it’s the plant-based diet now that makes for less stank?