Jess and I are in Gabriel Brothers, a discount store à la TJ Max (but rating slightly higher on the cheap-and-crappy grid). We are surveying rows of tacky stilettos, and there is a girl about one yard to our right doing likewise.
And then, out of the blue -
Jess farts. She just rips a huge one, as if she were alone in the privacy of her home. Not in a public store with people standing an arm’s length away.
“Whoops. Didn’t see that one coming.”
At this point, I can’t take my stifled laughter anymore so I shuffle into the next aisle leaving Jess to deal with her own debacle. But that’s just the thing: to Jess, audibly passing gas in public is as natural as a big shnozz on a Jewish mug. Nothing to be ashamed of. Just part of who we are
She doesn’t leave the aisle until she is satisfied with her perusing. Why should she? There is nothing to embarrassed about here.
As roommates, Jess and I have shared the same bathroom for a number of years. Admitedly, it did not take us long to grow comfortable with holding conversations while one of us was on the toilet and the other in the shower or at the sink. I dunno - is that weird? I don’t like to think so. You know, the way people talk about sexual encounters as if they were just another everyday interaction, you would think it strange to be so hush-hush about other (albeit, less exaulted) bodily functions.
I was watching an episode of Sex and the City (alright, alright) and Carrie is lying in bed with Mr. Big when she accidentally lets one loose. She freaks. She is so mortified that she can’t even face him for a while. I sort of get it…but not really. For crying outloud, if you’re having sex with someone you should be ok with a tiny nitrogen release.
My mom tells me that she did not fart in front of my father, even after they were married. I say that’s what led to the divorce. Of course, I say this in jest - but still, I could never marry a man if I couldn’t pass gas in his presence.
News flash: EVERYBODY farts. Poops. Vomits. Hacks up mucous on occasion, even. There is no need to tip-toe around the fact that we are human beings, and with that comes our physicality.
And yes, sometimes there is more evidence of that than we desire.
Case in point:
A couple weeks ago, Jess and I were leaving a friend’s house at around 3 am. As we approached Jess’s car that had been parked on the street, we noticed an unidentifiable object lying on the windshield.
"What the fuck is that?""I can’t see from over here."
"Holy shit! hahahahaha - someone put fucking shit on my car!"
A substantial heap of poop, wrapped in a coffee filter, sat atop the driver’s side of the windshield. Our reaction was not one of disgust or anger, but rather uncontrollable laughter. We’re still unsure if it was animal or human feces, and we have no clue as to what could have provoked such an act. Jess’s car has no bumper stickers. There is no evidence that she is a university student. Maybe she parked in someone’s usual spot. Maybe it was just the upshot of another boring, drunken tirade in a backwoods Ohio town. Regardless, we appreciated the hilarity of the situation.
Disgusting. OK. I’ll give it that. But c’mon, people.
Gas is just gas. Poop is just poop.
And a lil’ flatulence never killed anyone.
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