Something hugely fundamental happened over the weekend that was somehow left undocumented.
Small Bum and I hit a new level of intimacy this weekend that was previously unaccounted for. First he let me squeeze a zit on his back. Make no mistake, I enjoyed that immensely. Then he took it one step too far, hurdling over the boundary line in one foul-smelling swoop.
He farted. Loudly. While I was sitting on his lap.
He thought this was h.a.l.a.r.i.o.u.s. Just the funniest thing ever.
Look, it was pretty funny. OK, it was so funny, I nearly wet myself. The momentum and sound thrust behind it was cataclysmically hysterical.
Farting in relationships isn’t something new to me. Ex S would awake me each morning with a Dutch Oven. Don’t ask. We almost didn't notice when one of us popped one out. I vowed this time it would be different.
So we have discussed the exchanging of noxious gases.
I’m not going to open my lunchbox in front of him, and I certainly don’t want him cutting the cheese in front of me.
For as funny as farting is – and it is – things decidedly go downhill from here. Soon he’ll be wanting to take a dump with the door open, or scratch his balls in front of my mother, or make me sleep in my own wet spot. (Which he has tried to make me do already.)
One needs boundaries. To keep the unadulterated lust alive. Which is why I leave the building when perpetrating an expulsion of bowel air.
And get this, when I refer to the ‘farting incident,’ which obviously infiltrated my brain as a monolithic event, I get “huh?” He doesn’t remember it at all. Had I been the barbaric baffer, I’m pretty certain this wouldn’t be the case.