The Gas Test

I was recently asked what the difference was between love and infatuation.

In order to answer this question, one must channel their inner middle school self. That’s right, we’re going back to fart and booger satire.

I can see you. Your brow is furrowed. Your nose in wrinkled. You’re thinking, ‘what the hell does one have to do with the other?’

I asked the woman if she ran out of the room to fart or just excused herself after busting wind. Her face turned red and she refused to answer, so I can only assume she’s still running out of the room.

Infatuation is easy. You find the other person hot. You wanna have sex with them all of the time. Your stomach lurches when you get a text or a phone call from that person. In this stage, your relationship is about as deep as a kiddie pool.

I know, I know. Farts? But farts are funny. It’s a natural and normal bodily function. We all fart. It’s just your bum giving raspberries. Sometimes it even tickles. Sometimes it stings when it’s a really big popper and your asshole slams shut like a cell door.

I digress.

I took one of my children into the doctor for a stomach issue and the nurse told me after 12 years, she still leaves the room to fart. What the absolute fuck? Whether or not there is a piece of paper declaring you married, your partner is going to see you at your worst.

My husband has heard me talk out of my ass. He’s watched me puke my brains out. He’s watched me sick with the flu in the shower because that’s the only place I felt safe. He’s been with me through countless periods, cramps, bloating, bleeding and bitchy. He’s nursed me when I had 1st and 2nd degree burns and I was high out of my gord on pain medication. He had to take me to the bathroom because I couldn’t unbutton my pants with one hand bandaged.

He stood by me when I had my gallbladder removed and they broke my damned rib. He still loved me when I was running to the bathroom with horrid cases of the hershey squirts because after they remove your gallbladder, you have that side effect for awhile.

But after all of the horrible, disgusting, putrid and sometimes funny things my body does…he still finds me sexy. He still chases me around with his pecker. His dick has not held it against me that after the previous night’s chili has worked it’s way to my large intestine, I sound like a broken trombone.

Trust me, the guy farts. When I’m really lucky, he waits for me to get into bed with him first. And he has been the one barfing up meals from three days ago swearing that he’s dying. I’ve mopped the fever sweat off of his head, fed him soup, rubbed his gross feet and massaged his back when the arthritis in my hands hurts so bad I want to cry.

That is the difference between love and infatuation. A simple fart isn’t going to destroy love. It won’t destroy lust, even. To prove my point and possibly embarrass myself further, there was a night he was feeling a bit randy.  My tummy wasn’t feeling the greatest, but I love my husband. As soon as the poor guy got it in, I rattled his ballsack with a giant gust of wind. My stomach clenched with laughter (I have the unfortunate reflex of giggling when I fart. Still. At damned near 40. I can’t even blame a fart on the dog, because I laugh.) Anyway, when my stomach clenched, I ejected the poor guy’s manhood out of me like it was being shot out of a grenade launcher.

And, when I finally quit laughing, we went back to what we were doing. Because it’s just a bit of hot air, and we’re all full of it anyway.

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