Fresh Air

Pea and I are laying in bed, quietly enjoying listening to the conversation of two drunken revelers outside my windows. Suddenly, I get that tell-tale rumbling in my gut. That bubbling, unmistakable pressure in the lower abdomen. I'm gonna rip one, and there's no holding it back.

I shift and turn, trying to adjust, trying to pinch tight enough to keep a seal. It's no use - the dams break. The tiniest hint of a toot leaks out, and I'm absolutely mortified. I hold my breath and wait for the laughter.

Pea doesn't utter a sound. Seconds stretch into minutes - minutes stretch into eternity. Finally, Pea makes a sound - he snores. He was asleep the whole time.

The problem, of course, is that the miniature release offered no relief to my overall problem. Now I'm faced with a much larger issue: the four horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding through my intestines, and I've got a boy nestled into my shoulder, sleeping soundly. I can't conceivably sneak out of bed without disturbing him, and there'll be no release if I don't do something. Time is of the essence, of course - eventually, the sea will fold in on itself and swallow the Pharaoh's army.

I wiggle just a little. Pea grunts. I wiggle a little more. He sniffles a little and rolls half-way off me. Success!

Sort of.

I try to carefully slide my arm out from under his head, but he whimpers and digs his fingertips into the covers, holding on tighter. The horsemen's hooves beat steadily towards the light of day, and I hear imaginary alarms going off in my head. Time's up.

My gentle nudging becomes an abrupt drop. Pea rolls over and starts snoring again. I'm free. I shoot into the bathroom, grasp the countertop for support, and let 'er rip.
Thing is, I don't think men actually feel this way. I mean, sure, on a first or second date they might avoid horking and snotting and the release of toxic fumes, but somewhere around the one-month mark, they seem to let go of all pretense. Suddenly, you come home to a man laying nearly naked on your sofa in two-day-dirty BVD's with one finger in his belly button and one finger in his nose.

Women, on the other hand, are expected to be pretty and feminine and all rosey-smelling delicacy. God forbid we should get ahold of a bowl of Tex's Killer Chili for lunch.

We do, though. Oh boy do we! I guess we'll let that be another one of our dirty little secrets, though. We'll describe the ins and outs of our mensus, go into an in-depth discussion on acne, but the functions of our back-side junction are strictly off-limits.

So much for equal rights. Ah, well...