balding angrily

I go through this problem every time I stop going to the gym and watching what I eat. My belly feels like its sitting on my thighs like an old man sits on his rocking chair rocking and complaining about the speeding whipper-snappers kicking up dust down his private dirt road. In this case complaining about drag racers equals gurgling and producing pockets of gas that don’t keep themselves contained.

Jerry and I are sometimes more like frat brothers than cuddly lovebirds. Many times a week one of us will purposefully fart on the other person. All sweet-like I whisper in his ear, “I love you very much…good night, sweetie,” turn around so my butt is right up against his hip, and let one fly. Jerry is less obnoxious but more noxious. He let’s one fly and then demurely says, “Whoops!” Fifteen seconds later the smell hits me, and I have to run for the Neutra-Air. As soon as I bolt from the bed, he cackles and kicks his feet in glee. I spray the Neutra-Air directly at his face while he screams at me to stop. We’ve been together for four years. It doesn’t get old. So naturally - or maybe unnaturally - I fart without really thinking about it.

We’re pretty much moved in, so there’s no more excuse for not working out. Today I gave it another go at the gym, but the gas problem hasn’t quite gone away. I farted and too loudly. Blessedly my elliptical neighbors had their headphones on, so they didn’t hear it - I think. And I hope they didn’t smell it. I hope.