Tales of flatulence

Note: I'm hoping the title of this blog will deter the easily-offended from reading any further. However, since my mom is one of the only people who reads this blog, and since she is the one who instilled in me a love for bathroom humor, I know I am not in danger of offending my readers. Futhermore, I am compelled to write and dedicate this to my husband--probably the biggest fan of flatulents and the humor they illicit.

I have read somewhere that the average person excretes gas 15 times a day. I have to say that when I read this statistic, I became somewhat alarmed for my health as I exceed this number before breakfast. I would definitely describe myself as a gasey person. Usually my flatulants are of the sbd (silent but deadly) variety, and I have been known to clear a three bedroom home after a particularly greasy meal. I usually save the loud ones for when I am alone or with people I know won't judge me--namely my husband and my mother.

I usually have problems of the gaseous variety after meals, which I'm sure is typical of any normal functioning human. In high school (the land of self-esteem issues), this posed a problem as I would usually be stricken with a case of severe sbdf right after lunch (figure out the acronym on your own). I must say that what I'm about to reveal is not what I count as the finest hour of my life, but definitely a wonderful case of ingenuity. My sophomore year, I had chemistry right after lunch. In this class I sat at a table with a friend of mine--a friend who was unaware of my record setting gas. However, since this class was after lunch, my intestinal activity became somewhat active during this class. Several times I was uanble to hold back the sulfuric stench and I could tell my table partner was noticing the noxious fumes that seemed to always congregate around our table. At one point, I let out a particularly rank brand of stink. I could see that my friend was gasping for air, so to save face I made a decision. I leaned over and said "Isn't it gross how (name has been removed to protect the innocent) farts all the time in this class? I think she has a problem." That's right. I blamed the poor, introverted student in front of me and it worked--my friend believed me. It even became a topic about which we would joke from time to time. From that day forward, I could flatulate free from persecution. Jane Doe student had unknowingly taken the fall for me.

Fast forward to my adult (I use the term loosely) life. I am once again back in the classroom environment, this time as a professional. Again, I am faced with the dilemma of keeping my overly gaseous system in check. Since school has started, I have had a couple close calls where the stink could have been linked to me, but I somehow have escaped blame. In the back of my mind I knew that someday, though, my sins would catch up with me and I would be called upon to pay for my inexcusable behavior in high school. That day, my friends, was last week. I had just finished a rather greasy treat at lunch and I could feel the effets of it start to rumble in my stomach during my study hall period. In my sixth hour class, as I was up front lecturing, I could sense something terrible was about to happen. As I turned around to write on the board, it happened. I had an escapee. Not a silent one, either. This one was a loud one. I farted. In front of my students. Farted. In front of my high school students. I was mortified. I tried to play it off as my shoe rubbing against the carpet in a weird way, but I knew they knew. As I turned around, I was preparing myself to face a class in uproar. Through the grace of God, however, there were only a few snickers. I quickly moved on and prayed that I would be spared any unflattering nicknames, such as Mrs. Farts-a-lot.

It was not a proud day, but I learned a good lesson: the farts you blame on the innocent will come back to haunt you when you are in front of a class of 20 adolescent students. Let that be a lesson to all of you.