Farts can spark a litmus test of the self. By the time we’ve reached adulthood, several epic decisions have been made. Will I be liberal or conservative? Will I prefer an automatic or a manual transmission? Much in the same manner, we decide if we will be among those who relish talking about farts. I am one of those people.
Last week I tweeted that the perceived heat of a fart upon exit is directly proportional to the magnitude of its smell. This is the first tweet I’ve done that has been liked, and I discovered that there are folks who comb Twitter for fart references. It is strange that farts have a fan club of sorts given that they aren’t scarce like other entities who develop a following, such as celebrities. Oddly enough, during the vaudeville era there was a professional farter called Le Pétomane who had the distinction of being a celebrity because he was uniquely flatulent. Fans of Le Pétomane aside, I would guess that no one has camped in line for days for a fart, unless they are exceptionally unlucky.
My willingness to talk farts is akin to the Fat Acceptance movement. Since I have been flatulent since birth, it behooves me to speak of something that happens to me so often. My intolerance to lactose and soy protein collides with my addiction to carbonated drinks to make me a fart powerhouse. I have been called both Motorboat and Bunkerbuster. In my youth, my dad acknowledged my affinity for art and farts by nicknaming me De Butta.
This symphony of farts and fart talk felt apart when I fell in love with my husband. He is not one of those people who would sign up for a symposium on gas. Once I knew I was willing to avoid this subject for his sake, I realized he was The One, and I became part of an Interfart marriage.
I will try to refrain from telling him I devoted this much time to writing about farts, but I doubt I will be able to keep this from him for long. There is room in my brain for just one secret at a time.