I should probably preface this to say that I’m not usually the type to talk about farting, ever. But there’s nothing worse than someone who tries to make you feel bad about squeaking out a raspberry.
I’ve escaped fart-shaming on more than a few occasions in my life. There've been times I’ve successfully crop-dusted an ill-fated jerk at the grocery store and it’s been difficult to maintain composure while watching his face turn, trying to peg the noxious smell.
I’ve even managed to devise a way to embarrass the person who catches me fart in a one-on-one conversation: never break eye contact, offer a slight smile, and he’ll start to blush and think that he was the perpetrator. It's basically a Jedi mind-trick for one's nostrils.
I've been with my boyfriend for a year and I still can’t work up the courage to admit to him that I am a normal human being that plays the butt trumpet. Escaping fart-shame is my means of survival! So you could imagine my horror when one day when we were taking a nap and I was awakened by my own tush kazoo. My whole body tensed and I began to panic. I peeked through my eyelashes to see if he was awoken by it as well. He was.
In a moment of desperation, I kept my eyes closed, rolled on my other side, and pretended I was still asleep. He rolled over on to his other side, but I couldn’t be sure if he noticed how I just played the Song of the Ass People. Later, I was feeling the weight of shame. I had to escape. Being the Indiana Jones of farts, I looked him dead in the eye, smiled, and said, “Your stomach was making really weird noises while you were sleeping. Did you eat something weird for lunch?”*slow clap* Keep fighting the good fight, Jessica.