I would like to state for the record, clearly and unequivocally, that I have gas. Lots of it, and much of the time. Like so many things in my life, I blame this on my mother (sorry Mom). To continue in the realm of slightly awkward, and moving quickly toward far too much personal information territory, if not just downright uncomfortable, I'm beginning to think that this is because neither of us takes a dump on a daily basis. I crap, at best 3-4 times a week. Sometimes, it's only once a week. Contrary to my husband's opinion, I am not constipated. I just don't crap much.
Sidenote: This served me well in college. I suffer from performance anxiety, and accepting that people will sometimes hear me wee was only overcome sometime in high school (in public bathrooms I always peed when it was either empty, a toilet was flushing, or the person in the stall next to me was peeing). I still have only fractionally overcome pooing when someone can hear me (and that someone is Adam). I only crapped at PLU when it was dire--and it wasn't dire enough if people were in the bathroom. And only once did I throw up in the bathroom when people were around, but I had food poisoning and figured that imminent death excused that aberration. Also, I can now sorta poo in an airport restroom, but it depends on the time, location of the loos, and airport, as well as direness of my intestines.
Back on topic: Mom thinks--and I agree, though I will be the first to state that there is no research, medical diagnosis, or anything else other than our general "smarts" to back us up--that part of why we don't poo so much is because our digestive track is thorough. It wants every last bit of nutrient and caloric goodness out of everything we consumed that it holds onto every last bit of poo until it's forced out. She also thinks that why we carry extra weight (this may or may not be true, but either way it should be seen as an incentive to eat less. But I digress). Regardless, I fear that I am starting to agree with Adam that if I took a dump more often my gas would be somewhat lessened, and probably significantly less horrible. Alas, I cannot force a turd if a turd does not wish to be. After all, diamonds take millions of years and massive pressure to form. Why should a turd be any different?
Of late though, my husband has taken to claiming that my gas was kept from him prior to our marriage. This, dear readers, is a lie. I did not hide, nor attempt to hide, minimize, or downplay the nature of my flatulence. To do so might possibly be grounds for divorce. I admit that, when in public, I hold the gas in (or go hide somewhere to let it out--my farts tend to be . . . shall we say, vocal?), as I did early in our relationship (for the first few months, neither of us farted around the other, resulting in interesting attempts at hiding the smells when the other person was out of the room for 30 seconds. Adam learned that the fetal position is great for expelling large amounts of air very quickly.). But after I farted whilst laughing when we were lying in bed, slowly the status quo became no holds barred. This continued--and probably expanded exponentially--when I first moved out here last February. Adam, on the other hand, claims it got worse after we got married. It did not. My ass has always been this horrible.
I bare my soul (and bum) to you, my faithful readers, in an attempt to prove to Adam that I did not and have not hidden the true nature of my flatulence. To do so would have been fraudulent, and, grounds for divorce--had anything about gas been written into the marriage vows.
