The “F” Word

When I was a small child I was taught to never, I mean NEVER utter the “f” word. My parents never said that word in mixed company or any other company. It was considered one of the most vulgar words any person anywhere could say. Now before anyone thinks I am referring to the “f” word used in the common vernacular of today, let me assure you, they didn’t say that one either, but that isn’t what I am talking about. I am talking about the word…fart. Even today it’s hard for me to even type the word. As a child, I didn’t say that word, I didn’t think that word and I definitely didn’t do that word in front of people, well at least I almost never did. There was one incident, one very embarrassing, humiliating moment when things happened. I was taught to keep things to myself, never letting anyone know that kind of behavior was even possible for me. I think back to all the agonizing times, when I had to hold in the gurgling mass of air from squeaking out at the most inopportune moments. As a girl, it was unacceptable to let others know I was capable of such atrocities.
I was about twelve years old, I think, when all hell broke loose for me, right in front of a group of family friends. My parents had a couple they were close to who also had kids, three kids to be exact. The one boy was about my age, the others were younger. The adults would come over to play cards, have cocktails and hang out. We kids were then expected to act like we were lifelong friends and interact in kind. The kids and I were all sitting downstairs in our basement family room watching television. We didn’t talk, we didn’t look at each other, and we just sat and watched T.V. for what felt like hours. I was lying on the couch, dazed over by the droning of the television, I completely forgot myself. I literally forgot there were other people in the room with me. I was in my house, doing what I always did, so for me it was like it was any other time when I was alone in my basement. I was dozing off, half awake and half asleep. My head was foggy and I was no longer in control of my senses. Zoned in to the show on the tube, I lay forgetting I had company when I let go and let out a sound even our dog jumped at. Suddenly I realized I was not alone, and they were all staring at me. I mean, their heads snapped to attention in my direction, eyes bugging, mouths agape, they zeroed in my very red face and gawked. I lay very still for a time, not moving, not breathing, not blinking, and just being very, very still. My hope at that point was that they might think I had died right there on the couch. I am quite certain the smell now emanating from the couch would lead to that assumption. No one spoke; you could hear a pin drop. The staring kids never veered from their head cocked positions, either. There we all were in suspended animation. Minutes passed like hours until the little girl broke the silence left by my deafening bomb I had dropped, and asked in the sweetest, most caring voice, ”Are you alright?” I slowly nodded my head and disappeared into my room for the rest of night until they eventually went home. My mother admonished me for leaving our guests by themselves, saying I was rude. I took my punishment and never told her what had happened. I figured if she knew why I left them in a lurch, she would have been more miffed at my behavior prior to my disappearance.
After the incident, I was more careful about my bodily functions. For years my face would light up beet red, just thinking about what I had done. You would have thought I had strangled someone. I guess in some ways, asphyxiating them probably wasn’t much better, but at least it was accidental. It is hard for me to imagine what it must be like for people, like my husband who are so comfortable with their bodies. Michael is not just comfortable, he is often fascinated by all the sounds his body can produce. It must be boy thing, for sure. I have met lots of women who insist they have never done it. I am more gifted now at concealing my leaky air flow. I won’t say I never do it, but I am able to go for years without doing it in front of anyone, except the dogs. We have a special bond, my dogs and I. They leak out all their bad stuff and I am accepted for all my bad stuff. Michael first showed me how comfortable he was when we were dating early on after college. He had come up to the island where my parents had a boat and camper. We had wandered off down the road for some privacy away from the glaring eyes of my parental units. We were in the initial stages of dating. I was still flipping my hair, giggling innocently, while he maintained his manly coolness. We were sitting outside in a park on a picnic table. There we were just laughing and talking, touching each other’s hands the way you do when you want the physical connection without going in for the kiss. There was first class flirting that day in the warm sun, surrounded by blue skies and puffy clouds. Michael said something really funny, as he always does, when all of sudden it was he who had the unfortunate incident. Where I had experienced a near panic attack with my situation, he just laughed even harder and said, “Oopsy!” I looked at him completely stunned. “Is that it, oopsy?”I asked incredulous. He laughed so hard he couldn’t talk anymore. He didn’t think about it again, except when I would bring it up to see if he was capable of embarrassment. He, to this day still thinks it’s hilarious.
Men are unapologetic when it comes to gas. They have made it their art form, a game of sorts, and if you are really unlucky you may have married the Dutch oven guy. I had broken off relationships due to my puckered feelings about gas. I dated one guy who thought it was perfectly acceptable behavior to let it all hang out in any situation. I was completely grossed out. He might as well have been the guy who didn’t brush his teeth, as far as I was concerned.
(To be continued)