By Amy McAllister of Dude… It’s Fine
We were standing in my ex-husband’s front room, discussing something or another about the kids when I felt the first little bubble begin to form and make its way down my intestinal track. I immediately started to clench my butt cheeks with all the clenching power I could muster, but if we’re being completely honest here, I don’t think there’s a single muscle left back there, so it wasn’t a very effective strategy to begin with.
I don’t know if it’s age or weight or what, but I’ve discovered the last several months that it’s getting increasingly harder to hold in my toots.
That would be all fine and dandy if they were silent, but they’re not. Regardless of what their final exit route ends up being, they all make this little “popping” noise. It’s not a long, drawn out fart sound. It’s not a squeak or a rumble or a roar. It’s a simple little pop, and for the most part, easy to ignore or disguise with a cough or a clap of the hands or any variety of unexpected bursts of sound and a quick relocation just in case it happens to smell.
I do, however, attribute the change in sound to the weight gain. Before, when I was thin, it was much easier to subtly lift a leg to create an opening large enough for the intestinal air to make its noiseless escape. Now that I’ve gained 50 pounds, I’d have to prop one leg up on a fireplace mantle to make enough room for even the tiniest of toots. It just ain’t happening. So the days of “silent but deadly” are behind me, and for the most part, I’ve adapted.
Back to the evening chatting with the ex. So we’re standing there, not five feet apart, when the retched gas starts to make its move and I start the aforementioned butt clenching. Without warning, a “pop, pop, pop” escapes right out the front of me. Yes. From my vagina. There, I said it.
I froze for a second and backed up against the wall, making as much noise as I could, hoping to disguise the fact that my hoo-ha sounded like it was feasting on Pop Rocks. I no sooner hit the wall when it happened again…rapid fire bubbles bursting, like someone squeezing the bubble packing that fine china is shipped in…right from my lady parts.
I talk louder, laugh, pray he isn’t hearing it, when, you guessed it, it happens for a third time. And I can’t make it stop. The harder I squeeze, the more popping noises my cooch makes and I finally have to admit what’s going on.
I start to laugh as I confess that yes, in fact, my body is making all that noise and no, I have no way to make it stop. I joke about how I never thought I’d be too fat to control my farts at 41 years old, and he laughs about the fact that I’ve given up all hope of trying to hold them in or disguise them anymore.
Listen, I’ve farted in front of the guy before. We were married for 15 years. But we’ve been divorced for almost nine years now and as comfortable as I am around him, farting just isn’t something I’d choose to do. Farting out of my vagina in front of him? Just lay me down in the driveway and back over me a couple of times instead please. Seriously.
But in the moment, when there was nowhere to go and nothing left to say, I had no choice but to admit that I was a walking one man band and that I was unsuccessfully trying to hold it in. Dude…it’s fine. Nothing happened. I’m sure he told his wife about it later and I’m sure they had a great laugh about it, but it wasn’t published in the local paper or used as his next Facebook status update.
There are things in life that, try as we might to stop them, happen anyway. Sometimes, the harder we try to avoid them, the stranger or more unpleasant the outcome becomes. My ex knew I was farting. Duh. But man, we sure had a good laugh once I admitted to it. And the next time it happens in front of him, all I’ll have to do is shrug my shoulders, politely say “oopsie” and move on.
Do I want to be the girl that can’t hold in her flatulence? Of course not. Do I want those pesky little farts to pop out of my va-jay-jay when I try to hold them in? Double of course not. Is there anything I can do about it at this point? Not to my knowledge (though I am always looking for creative ways to mask popping sounds).
Maybe you haven’t lost the ability to suppress the urge to pass gas. Maybe you’ve never accidentally front farted. But I’m sure you can think of a hundred other things that have embarrassed you at the absolute worst time.
What did you do about it? Did you admit to your folly and laugh about it with everyone around you? I hope you did. And if you didn’t, I hope the next time it happens, whatever “it” is, you try it.
Fess up. Make a joke. Laugh before anyone else gets a chance to and see how you feel afterward. Life is full of little things that are out of our control and dude…it’s fine. As long as you’re willing to let it be, it really is fine.
(And if you happen to be standing next to me in line at the supermarket and think you hear fireworks coming from my baby maker, I’m sorry. Chances are, I tried to stop it and couldn’t. Feel free to laugh.)
Is it a knock at the door
or someone pounding a nail?
You feign some confusion
and wish you could bail.
There it goes again…
is it the 4th of July?
Are fireworks exploding
out in the night sky?
You cough and talk louder,
trying to fill every silence.
But those little front farts
keep on bursting with violence.
What on earth do you mean when you say a “front fart”?
Are you referring to a vaginal queef?
No, no my young friends. They are two different things,
and some day they will cause you much grief.
It’s a natural fact that the gas you release
Will take the path with the littlest resistance.
And it doesn’t help matters when the front facing tunnel
offers a route with a much shorter distance.
Passing gas, though not pretty, is just part of life
and occasionally we let a toot slip.
But when your butt is so big that it now acts as a dam,
those toots reroute out your front lips.
Add a rumbly tummy due to gallons of soda
that you drink any chance that you get,
and you’re left with a symphony of pops, squeaks and blurps;
a one man vagina quartet.
You’re trying to chat with your ex for a sec,
and he’s only like 5 feet away.
You squeeze your butt cheeks, cross your legs, hold your breath…
but the symphony continues to play.
So you finally accept that’s there’s nothing to do
and admit you front fart all the time .
You both start to laugh, which only makes you toot louder,
Hi, I’m Amy. I front fart…dude…it’s fine.
This post was originally published on Dude… It’s Fine.
About the Author
Amy is a single mom of 4, a recovering alcoholic/addict, a Director of Nursing for a drug and alcohol treatment center, a full-time grad school student, and a writer. She has maintained a couple of blogs dealing with addiction and recovery and lately, just about good ole life. Her new mantra – Dude…it’s fine -just happens to be the name of her blog. Using poetry (well, humor that rhymes) and short stories, she talks about all the things we all go through but never bring up at dinner parties. You can follow along at www.dudeitsfine.com or @dudeitsfine.blog on Instagram.