Saturday, April 13, 2013

The Tell-Tale Bottom

It's funny when you move in with someone.  Suddenly you feel like you have to be on your best behavior all the time.  Even though you feel comfortable and confident around this person, you still feel like you have to put on your best show for them.

And then one day, you relax.  Your secret single behavior that you've been harbouring quietly pulls up anchor and floats up right between you and him.

You know what it's like (ok, well, if you've ever moved in with a boy, you know what it's like).  I moved in with the boy back in December.  I held my ladylike fa├žade for as long as I could - and he was impressed!  I was dainty, polite, neat, tidy...I looked and smelled pretty.

Before I go much further, let me admit the horror to you - I, along with several of my family members, suffer from terrible, wretched flatulence.  Like, clear the room kind of flatulence.  And we're unclassy about it because we all think it's funny.  We're all grown adults who still laugh at farts.  That's right.  We're a bunch of five year olds giggling as the noises and smells coming from our posteriors.

So.  I finally relaxed.  And the rumbling started.  From my tummy to my tush, I couldn't keep it in any longer.  I mean, how many bellyaches did I have to endure?  Like Shrek says, "Better out than in, Donkey!"  That really is my firm belief.

The first few time I feigned such surprise that I could make such a noise.  Luckily, they were just an auditory offence, his olfactory senses were not affronted.  But soon he caught on. 

"I was not prepared for your farting," he said with such disappointment.

I giggled.

"Baby, you have no idea...."

It's only been about 4 months or so, and he still hasn't experience the full wrath of what could happen when I eat what I shouldn't eat.   Lucky for him. 

I wonder how long I can keep this up?  My sister seems to have accustomed her husband to the toils of tummy turbulence...though I suspect it's something he begrudgingly lives with...perhaps I'll ask her advice. She might say that when it gets too bad she just gasses him via a dutch oven until he passes out and then he can't complain. 

Or she might just say she open the windows.  Who knows.

The good news is that now he sometimes snickers at me when one pops out.  He's coming around.  One day he'll love me for my farts, I just know it.