I’m Married to a Fart Prude and it stinks.
In sixteen years, I’ve been in the presence of his ghost-like flatulence less than ten times. I know, I’m lucky. I wouldn’t really want to be in the arms of a dutch oven captor. It’s hard because I’m not a prudish farter. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t make him pull my finger after tacos. But l’m human. I have needs.
I discovered his disorder (because I say it is) a few months into dating, after dinner. Up until that moment neither of us had expelled any form of grossness in front of each other. But I felt safe enough to ease into a new stage. At this point in a relationship you’re taking risks.
First you don’t get to supervise the gaseous brew inside yourself. Nor do you know how your internal air will be received by others. Most men will laugh it off or blast back with a bigger one. An uncomfortableness was gurgling in my abdomen and traveling south. I had mad skill to squeeze, suspend and relocate. But in a rare moment of self assurance I protested the idea of leaving.
If he was the one, he would have to deal. Was I supposed to reroute my gas? No.
Sweating from the pain of holding it in this long I put my mind into release gear.
Just let go…ohm…
So I let it out. It was long, and loud. Apparently joining in my confidential pilgrimage, it was happy to belong.
The look of horror is what should have sent me packing.
Perhaps he’d spent those past months assuming roses grew from my ass, or he was sad he didn’t get to go first.
Oh no, it was his disorder.
I couldn’t stop laughing out of nervous regret. My courage was trying to crawl back inside.I loved him and he hated a part of me (actually it was now a part of us). And it was odour-iffic.
I got defensive, demanding an explanation for his disgust. He was looking for the same. Understanding that even the Queen breaks wind, he said you should always excuse yourself before you pass gas. Before?! But we had evolved, so I thought. You see, he was raised in a fart-free home. It’s sad to think of his loss. It made me long to be home with my cheese cutting family. Cause I would have commanded an applause for that performance.
We now have three kids. A lot of farting happens here. Toot talk, bum burps and cracking of beans. From everyone but him. It’s a lot of pressure for me to be both mother and father farter. But jokes, and sibling gas wars are a right of passage I want my kids to experience.
He’s coming around. Once in a while I overhear him testing his skills to fit into our fart tribe. I don’t bring attention to it or welcome him to the human race anymore. I no longer compete with his offerings, or load myself with roughage ammunition.
I give his introverted bowels the space they need to join in when they are ready.