In Which I Clear The Room

When I was growing up, I thought the worst and most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to me was throwing up in class. Having got that one out of the way in the sixth grade, I thought I was in the clear. I mean, I had already called my teacher Mommy (first grade), peed my pants (second grade), had my chair pulled out from underneath me just as I was about to sit (fourth grade), and learned the importance of remembering to put on deodorant (fifth grade). In my pubescent logic, short of getting an erection while giving a presentation or talking with Miss Grenier (the hot Language Arts teacher), what else could happen?

As it turns out, there was something else.

On the day in question, I woke up to some intestinal grumbling. I was late getting up, so I had no choice but to ignore it. I showered and dressed, wolfed down some Cheerio's, and was out the door. I contained a few more peals of gut-thunder before my father dropped me off at school, and all in all, it was much like any other day in seventh grade.

Halfway through first period geography, I excused myself to the bathroom. I was hoping that whatever conflict was going on with my stomach would resolve itself quickly. I waited quietly in the stall in the empty boy's room, sitting on the cold plastic toilet seat. After a few minutes of silence, it seemed like nothing was going to happen. I buttoned up and washed my hands, and hoped it was all over. I had gym next period, and the last thing I wanted to be doing was laps on the track with a stomach on a hair trigger.

By the start of gym, though, the rumbling had returned. I stalled in the locker room for as long as I could, hoping it would go away as it had before. The pressure did subside, but it felt like something dangerous had lingered behind. I joined the rest of my class, holding my stomach gingerly as the Coach talked about the day's activity. He gruffly told us to separate into groups and do some general fitness exercises... sit-ups, push-ups, chin-ups, vertical jumps, sit-and-reach... pretty much everything that an overweight kid would fail miserably at.  

I painfully went through all of the required exercises, and the Coach kept track of everyone's progress on his clipboard. I always hated the way he looked at me when he would jot down my less-than-average score. My stomach gurgled and groaned the entire time, and I was thankful that the gym was loud enough to cover up the sound. I saved the sit-ups for last, and paired off with my best friend to complete them.

We small-talked our way through his mandatory 30 sit-ups, and by the time it was my turn the period was almost over. The Coach, ever mindful to make sure no one escaped his rule without breaking a sweat, yelled at me to make sure that I "hustled" and did my thirty sit-ups. I groaned inwardly as my stomach groaned outwardly, and laid down on the mat.

Just as I had for him, my friend held down my feet while I grunted through the first ten or so. I could feel my face getting red and the sweat beading down my forehead, but I pushed on with determination. My friend was prattling on about something, and soon I was a mere five sit-ups away from being done when my stomach tensed up. 

I had no time to react, no time to warn my friend, no time to even think about stopping what was going to happen next. The event that I had waited impatiently for in the bathroom twice so far that day was coming to pass, and there was nothing I could do about it.

As I leaned forward to complete the sit-up, I farted. 

It was the fart of my life, a champion fart, a gold-medal winner. It was a five-second foghorn, propelled from inside with the force of a category five hurricane. My cheeks slapped together violently and painfully, the expulsion of air bursting through the cloth of my pants with such ferocity that at first I thought I they had ripped. It echoed in the hard-walled gym, loud enough to make everyone stop what they were doing. Even the unshakable Coach turned his head. My friend, caught off guard by the assault, let go of my feet and fell backwards.

At that moment, with complete and utter silence reigning in the room and all the eyes of my peers focused heavily on me, I noticed the smell. 

Simply put, it was horrible. It made my eyes water and my mouth seethe. It was so bad I could taste it. My stomach lurched and somersaulted, and I feared the stench was bad enough that it could be seen, clinging to the air in a noxious, green cloud. 

With my friend no longer holding my feet down, I tumbled over onto my side. At that, the silence in the room broke with laughter, and I got to my feet. Their laughter covered the sound of the aftershock farts that came out then, but they were so minute in comparison to what had just transpired. I looked over to my friend to see him kneeling on the floor, coughing and waving his hand in front of his face. I felt so bad for him, having received that cannonball of methane gas right in the face. My face was hot and red, and just when I thought was going to burst into tears from sheer embarrassment, the bell signaling the end of the period rang. 

I expected the rest of the day to be full of ridicule and pointed fingers, but my gym-class mat-slapping flatulence was back page news compared to the kid who had crapped himself in the gym class just before mine. I felt bad for the other kid, but fortunate that the spotlight had shifted away from me. Junior high is rough enough without something like that on your record.

As one could guess, that monster fart was the source of my ailment earlier in the day. Letting loose the demon made me feel so much better, and I was glad for it.

Even if it cost me any chance I had of a girlfriend until high school. 

In Which I Hurt Myself Sitting Down

As with most people, I am not fond of public bathrooms. I try to use them as infrequently as possible, but sometimes you just can't avoid it. Whether it was the 87 oz. Big Gulp from the gas station or 14 cups of coffee, you never know when the limits of your bladder will be reached. 

In a stroke of genetic luck, men were given the advantage over women when it comes to urinating in public bathrooms. We were given genital features that can be aimed with semi-accurate precision, instead of having to crouch over the toilet and hover. When it comes to the Other Matter, though, the playing field is equal. I try to limit my public bathroom usage to Urine Only, but when you let Nature's Call go to voicemail enough times, you won't know that there truly is an emergency until right before it happens. 

Which is what happened to me a couple of weeks ago.

While out to dinner, I felt a roll of thunder pass through my intestines. I had been ignoring the protests from my gut all day, but this colon complaint finally was angry enough to be heard. The message was clear: I needed to get my ass to the bathroom, or I'd risk ruining my favorite pair of jeans, the chair I was sitting on, and the dining experience for everyone in my corner of the restaurant. 

I excused myself and walked tight-cheeked to the bathroom as fast as I could.

Now, by nature, men are disgusting creatures. The horror stories you hear about men's public bathrooms are generally true, but we were at a decently upscale restaurant, and the bathroom wasn't the fecal-fest it would have been elsewhere. The bathroom was empty, so I scanned and selected a stall by making sure it met the all of the important public bathroom criteria:

1. No unidentifiable (or identifiable) substances on the floor or on any part of the toilet/toilet seat, or in the toilet bowl,
2. Adequate stock of toilet paper,
3. Test flush of the toilet verifies there is no clog,
4. Functioning door lock mechanism.

I entered the stall and locked it behind me. Since I had Business To Do that required a sitting position and the bathroom lacked seat covers, I layered the seat with toilet paper before sitting down. I won't go into any details as to what happened immediately next, but suffice it to say that the Bowel Storm passed through quickly and without any incident. I reached to my left for the toilet paper dispenser, and pulled off about 370 feet of tissue. I leaned to my right, and as I shifted my center of gravity, I slipped. 

I slipped off the toilet seat on the protective layer of toilet paper, and slammed my shoulder into the wall. With my left hand bent behind me and my right hand pinned to my side by the wall, I was stuck. I remained still for a moment, obviously uncomfortable and with the toilet seat giving me a wedgie. I freed my left hand, and tried pulling myself back up. When that didn't work, I tried bouncing myself off the wall. I got a good momentum going, and finally managed to get myself semi-upright... until the toilet seat snapped. 

When the toilet seat gave way, I came crashing down to the floor on my right side. I lay there for a minute, stunned, before getting up from the floor. Keep in mind that this all happened while my ass was hanging out, pants piled around my ankles. I did my best cleaning myself up before flushing and leaving the stall. I took a look back before closing the door, and it was a mess. Not with anything that would require gloves and a strong gag reflex to clean up, but still.

As I was washing my hands, an employee of the restaurant came in. He looked at me, and then peeked into the other stalls. Finding them all empty, he appeared puzzled.

"Was that you making all that noise?" he asked.

"No, some guy was in that second stall there when I came in. I don't know what he was doing, but he left in an awful hurry," I said, now drying my hands and keeping my head down. 

"Huh," he remarked, and scratched his head. "He must have been having a hard time in there. He broke the toilet seat."

"No shit," I said, turning to leave. "Well, I guess that might have been his problem."

The employee chuckled, and closed the stall door. "Maybe so."

In Which I Try Something New

Way back when I first started writing here, I mentioned a recurring dream that I had been having. I was having the same dream at least once a week for a couple of months, where I started smoking cigars. Since last May when I wrote about it, the frequency of the dream has dropped down to at least once a month. The fact that I have a recurring dream doesn't bother me, but something about it just sticks with me.

I have never smoked anything in my life. The closest I ever came to smoking was the time I got a cigarette from a kid at school in the seventh grade. I swiped a pack of matches from the cupboard where my parents hid them in the kitchen, and hid out in the woods behind my house. I put the cigarette in my mouth and I had a match in my hand, ready to strike it against the side of the matchbox. I could already smell the sulfur, already see the flare of fire and smoke as it caught. With the cigarette hanging from my mouth and the match just in front of it, I paused. I paused just long enough to realize how much trouble I would be in if I got caught. I dropped the unlit match and the matchbox on the hard packed dirt where I stood, and broke the cigarette in half. And with that, the moment where I had been the closest I have ever been to smoking ended.

Looking back on that moment now, I was smart to not follow through with it. Besides the obvious health risks, my mother had a keen sense of smell and would certainly have picked up on the distinct odor of cigarette smoke on my clothes. I can only imagine the hell that would have brought me had I not chickened out. Right around the same time as that, I snuck into my parents liquor cabinet with intent to try some of their booze. Same as with the cigarette, I stopped just short of actually doing anything for fear of getting caught. Back then, there was nothing scarier than getting in trouble by my parents. All of my nightmares paled in comparison, even the one I had after I saw E.T. for the first time. 

In my mind, sneaking cigarettes and booze is one of things that most kids do in their teen years to rebel from their parents. My parents had their hand on everything I did, especially when they started homeschooling me and my sisters, so I never got a chance to try anything like that again until I was out from under my parents roof and their sometimes smothering grasp, in college. I've had my share of alcohol since then, but I have yet to try smoking. I've had the chance to many times, but every time I would come close, I'd remember that moment in the woods behind my house, with that unfiltered cigarette dangling from my lips like I had seen people do on TV, and stop. I've never had one cigarette or cigar, nor any other smokable substance, in all of my teen or adult years. I feel as if I've missed out on one of those rites of passage of growing up, but it is of my own doing. 

Every time I have that dream where I start smoking cigars, I promise myself that one day soon I will buy a cigar and give it a go. A couple of times I've actually come close to asking the clerk behind the counter at the convenience store for one. As you can probably guess, I've yet to actually follow through. 

I won't follow through because I'll think of my grandfather and how his habit of smoking cigarettes led to his death more than ten years ago. I'll think of all those posters and commercials I've seen of how many people die from smoking each year. And even as an adult who is responsible for his life decisions, I'll think about how my parents would react. I know that one cigar doesn't mean I'll be addicted for life, but with all those thoughts reeling through my mind like a video cassette on fast forward, I'll change my mind before it's finally my turn to check out at the convenience store counter.

I have missed a lot of opportunities to experience things in my life because I have been too scared to step up and just do them. In high school, I could have gone to France. After high school, I could have gone to an out-of-state college. I could have done countless things that I now regret not doing because I have been too afraid to try something new.

Not any more, though.

I had the dream again last night, the one where I smoke a cigar. When I woke up this morning, I could almost smell the smoke from it in the air. I sat up and swung my feet out of bed, and even in my groggy state of consciousness, before my feet even hit the floor, it was settled in my mind. 

It is one thing that I have always wondered about, always wanted to try, and always been too scared to do. Even though that dream was the same as it ever was, something about it finally struck a chord within me. If I want to smoke a cigar, I'm going to smoke a damn cigar. Simple as that.

To some people, the act of picking up a cigar and smoking it wouldn't be a big deal at all. To me, though, it is. I'm taking charge of my life, even if in this one small way, and doing something I've wanted to do for many years. It is strangely liberating.

Maybe I'll enjoy the cigar, but maybe I won't. Maybe I'll try a different type to see if I like that one better, but maybe I won't. Maybe doing this will open the door to other things I've wanted to do, but maybe it won't. 

We'll see what happens.

In Which I Need Thicker Walls

The apartment that I live in shares common walls with our landlords. Our portion of the house is technically the in-law apartment of the house, divided by a wall of less-than-standard thickness. It took us less than one week to learn that even a normal-volume conversation could be overheard, be it our conversation or theirs. 

Having only a few inches between our sides of the house has made for interesting moments in the past couple months. Like the time where they had sex (yes, that one time). Or when they fought while having dinner:

Him: I'M YELLING AT YOU ABOUT SOMETHING INCONSEQUENTIAL.

Her: I'M YELLING EVEN LOUDER THAN YOU TO PROVE MY POINT.

Him: Can you pass the salt?

Her: Sure, darling.

Him: I STILL THINK YOU ARE WRONG, THUS MY CONTINUED RAISED VOICE.

Her: WHATEVER YOU SAY, DEAR. YOU'RE STILL SLEEPING ON THE COUCH.

Or my personal favorite, when they run their diesel-engine powered dishwasher at 10pm at night. Nothing like the roar of high-pressure water and a 16-horsepower drain pump that needs new bearings to lull you to a peaceful night's sleep. 

There have been a variety of things I have overheard, but lately something new has come up that just takes the cake.

A couple of times a week, one of my landlords (I can never tell if it is the He or the She) will draw up a bath. Their upstairs bathroom is partly above our living room, and with the thin walls and flooring we can clearly hear the tub filling up. Once the water shuts off, you can hear them testing the temperature of the water and then setting into the tub. There is a period of loud, watery sloshing sounds, but then all is still. 

And then, whoever is in the tub will fart.

It is unlike anything I have ever heard. These particular farts aren't the petite little one-cheek-sneak farts. These are marathon farts, the I-just-ate-chili farts, the I-didn't-know-I-had-a-tuba-up-my-butt kind of farts. It's a bare-ass, cheek-slapping fart against a hard surface. There is a squeak or a squeal almost, and of course, the bubbles. And oh, the bubbles! The escaping ass-air has to go somewhere, right? The sound of the bubbles is like someone switched on a Jacuzzi for about 3.7 seconds. 

This always happens in the evening, most often when both The Boss and I are sitting in the living room. After the butt-trumpet goes off over our heads, we have to stifle our rapturous laughter to keep from being overheard next door. I know that if we can hear them, they can hear us when we burp and fart, but I don't want to make it any more embarrassing than it needs to be. 

I think I'm going to leave a bottle of Bean-O with our rent check next month.