I remember discovering I wasn’t alone in Operation Clandestine Flatulence. Steve and I were freshly married and spent an evening with friends and good food. We said our goodbyes and headed for the car. As our friend closed the door behind us, Steve began punctuating each step.
“Oh man! I have been holding that in all night!”
With great relief to my tummy, I pushed out a few of my own. “That feels gooood!”
We propelled ourselves noisily down the sidewalk, careful to leave our business behind as we entered the car.
We’re liberals, right down to our bowels.
I must have farted on our first date, because I can’t remember ever holding back around Steve.
I didn’t know how to burp before I met him. My burps were all accidental surprises. Today I can conjure one of those bad boys on demand. Makin’ grandmas proud since 1998, yo!
Gas is our thing! “Farting is funny” is our family motto. I’m not kidding. Emma likes to tell people this. Strangers look at me to confirm and I shrug like, “Well, it is funny!”
We pee with the door open, too. Or at least I do. Come to think of it, mabye I’m the only one who does that. I don’t like being shut off from things. Besides, sometimes I have to go so bad, stopping to close the door could be the thing that means I don’t make it to the toilet.
The problem with leaving the door open is that when a poo surprises me mid-pee, it becomes obvious I’m pooing because I then have to shut the door. It’s like I’m announcing to my family: “Takin’ a poop!” I’m fine with pee splash noises, but poop plopping is out of my comfort zone.
Three times out of five I have to shut the door mid-pee. I don’t have the kind of bowels you can set your watch to. Or maybe I do and because I pay zero attention to my body, I don’t know when it’s coming. Either way, I’m always surprised to think I’m going in for a pee and find out there’s bigger business to take care of.
Early in our marriage, Steve and I lived in a house with the biggest bathroom we’ve ever had. Which is ironic because that house was our smallest at 900 square feet. We could easily both be in the bathroom doing bathroom things without shuffling to trade spaces or spitting on someone’s head.
Steve and I were in there one day, brushing our teeth. I was done brushing first and sat down to pee. As he finished up, we continued to chat.
So there I am, sitting on the toilet and he’s standing in front of me, finishing his story. Suddenly, one of my surprise poos sneaks up on me, but I’m so focused on what Steve is saying, I don’t pay attention. We’re making intense story-telling eye contact when I involuntarily make the push face.
You know—the push face: Holding your breath with a clenched jaw from the concentration it takes to contract your stomach muscles. Maybe your head pulsates a little from the tension in your neck?
The push face.
I made the push face while Steve was talking… to my push face. I crossed the sacred barrier of Poodom. I mean, you know people poo, but you don’t want to see people poo. I can barely watch my dog poo. And there I was, accidentally taking a shit in front of my husband.
Before I had time to hope Steve was too into whatever he was saying to notice, he interrupted his story to pause and ask, “Are you pooing? Did you just push?”
“I totally did! I’m so sorry!”
Steve doesn’t come in to talk to me while I pee anymore.
Come on over and like my Truthfully Facebook page where there are no push faces.
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