Gassy Girl, Part I

Categories: college | 2 Comments

For months now I’ve been planning to post about my tumultuous lifelong relationship with flatulence.  And as Lucy lies next to me sleeping and farting, it reminds me of one particularly horrifying day during my freshman year of college.

My freshman year was tough.  I entered school with an out-of-state boyfriend which distracted me from the task of making friends.  I spent the first three months driving to see him every weekend, but by late October, my road trip funds were depleted.  I had to get a job.  Unfortunately, by December, we broke up because he had cheated on me with some hoochie working at Victoria’s Secret.

Missing the window of opportunity to make nice with people on campus, I focused my attention on my fellow mall workers.  If you’ve ever worked in a mall, you’re familiar with the mall culture.  It is much like a small town-everyone knows where you work, who you hang out with, and if your boss is gay.  I’m not exactly sure how this gets spread, but I’m convinced it’s related to the security guards that circulate from store to store.  One of the people I met through the mall was Adam.

Adam was  cute.  He wore glasses, was nerd-chic, and was three years older.  Best of all, he lived in Arkansas prior to moving to our city.  I was really into Adam, and I thought he was rather into me.   We hung out pretty often, usually with mutual friends.

Then one night he invited me over to watch movies.  He lived with his parents, who were the campus missionaries at my school, but they were out of town at a conference.  When I arrived, we ate dinner and then sat down to watch the film. Adam was in a recliner and I laid down on the sofa. 

Things were going well.  I wasn’t ready to just start a physical relationship so I was thankful for the distance.  However, the movie wasn’t that interesting and I started to doze off.  I guess I feel into a deep sleep because my body completely relaxed and then “PPPPFFFTTTT.” I farted. I farted and it was loud.  It was so loud that it woke me up.  However, I wasn’t 100% that I didn’t dream it so I didn’t say anything.  Oddly, Adam didn’t say anything either. In fact, we didn’t say much to each other for the rest of the night.

By the time I performed my own version of the walk-of-shame across campus to my dorm, I knew that it wasn’t a dream.  I didn’t really wonder why he never called me again.  The answer  to that question is blowing in the wind.