Its Not a Fart if You Are Sleeping

     My boyfriend of four plus years has never heard me fart. I like to believe he thinks that I never do. However, he almost caught on once. I thought it was muffled, that not so secretive gaffe into the couch cushions that slipped out while he was in the other room. Darn, he peeked his head around the corner and said…

         “Did you just…?”

         “What?” (Me innocently)

         “Mmmm…never mind.” Him (looking decidedly perplexed)

     My family and friends who are privy to my little Faux pas, are flabbergasted that I have succeeded in hiding this for FOUR WHOLE YEARS. One friend wants to know how I have managed to not explode. My favorite brother explains that when you love someone, you love all of them. Seriously? Are you kidding me? Love does not mean sharing of the noxious, toxic “gastulence” that one produces from time to time. Keeping this particular bodily function concealed has become a clear sign of respect. I do not need to share everything! Besides, I am stronger than my body and can control when it produces those awful fumes.

     Growing up as the only girl with three brothers means bathroom humor tended to abound on a daily basis. My brothers thought nothing of pouncing upon me, sitting on me and forcing me to partake of their nasty gastulence. The more I begged and the more tears would flow, the harder they would laugh. This torture endured until they found someone else to torment. Fast forward to the dating years. My mother tried to instill ladylike qualities in me, which I use when it suits me or the situation warrants. Try as I might, the lessons learned from my brothers would inevitably squeak through in dreaded noises from both ends as I giggled with nervous embarrassment and rolled down the window of the cars I might be riding in, making comments about the smells from the farmer’s cows we would be passing. My charm succeeded in buffaloing my dates. I’m not sure at what point the dropping of the not-so-silent but deadly bombs, ceased to bother me and when I stopped bothering to hide those few and far between episodes of gastulence. However during my stressful married years, I developed IBS. The episodes of IBS went from few and far between to several times per week. The more traumatic life became the worse it got. My spouse at the time was appalled; I simply didn’t care. In retrospect, the sharing of gastulence was a lack of respect.  

     Fast-forward many years and back to the issue of the non-hearing and smelling of gastulence. My boyfriend had just returned from an active duty of 3 ˝ months. His absence had been very stressful, so my old friend IBS was in full force. I spent the week before he returned praying that the issue would subside because there was no way to hide, nor could I figure out how in the world to explain that his sweet little princess had a not so sweet side. I thought I was in the clear as the first two days passed with a pleasing perfume, due to the departure of IBS symptoms. However, Day Three spelled trouble. I had been able to remove myself from my co-workers when needed and was able to slip into the bathroom at home. Things seemed to be quieting down by the time we went to bed. I had just fallen asleep with my love beside me; the type of sleep where you are just barely under and vague sounds could be heard. But then, a horrible sound brought me out of my slumber. The vague sound I heard was not so vague. Rather it was more like a crack of lightening muffled under the cover of blankets. I froze in sheer terror hoping he was either asleep or had not heard. Listening intently [and not hearing] the sound of his sleep breathing, I remained paralyzed. Was my gig as Perfect Mate about to be compromised? A few brief moments later he pulled me to him for another goodnight kiss. Relief filled me as I fell back to sleep.

      In the morning however when I woke up, to my horror, it was apparent to my nose that the issue had continued through the night. I found myself glancing at the bedroom walls, seriously worried about the paint. I agonized that he would wake to that awful aroma which I had no words to explain away. Thinking quickly, I quietly turned on the Sentsy burner, which held my favorite scent of Sharp Dressed Man. Remembering in comedies, the characters would light matches, I softly employed this method as well. Fortunately, when he woke 30-minutes later the green cloud had cleared. Happily for me, no mention was ever made of the night I almost gassed him while he was sleeping. Did he notice or was he too appalled to say anything? Since he didn’t send me packing, I figured he remained ignorant and I intend to keep it this way.

     If I ever get caught, I can use the disclaimer. It’s not a fart when you are sleeping. It’s just your body’s way of crooning “good night”.

© Avie Layne 2012