Beep Beep Toot Toot, Yeah!

November 9, 2010

I've noticed that, the closer I get to fifty, the more "iffy" my bodily functions become. Or maybe I mean "sniffy..."

I'm almost one year shy of the half-century mark, and I'm pretty sure I've now mastered the art of farting. This is no great accomplishment in itself, I know. I mean, I've had five decades to get it right. I've always been a fan of farting--I grew up on Mad Libs and underneath the odious weight of gas-filled older brothers, after all.

In fact, I've always been a big fan of any outtake of air from bodily escape hatches.

As a high schooler, I learned how to take in great gulps of air, the result usually being a stunning, word-studded burp that would make a linebacker blush.

What's troubling now, though, is that I seem to have handed over the keys in all things expulsive. Where I once would choose to let rip a gentle symphony I now am powerless as my body scat-sings its way through the aftermath of a bean-based meal.

Drop something on the floor? No more casually bending over to pick it up, for fear I might mark the occasion with a toot of my trumpet.

The other day, I sneezed as I walked into the school, and thought I'd blown up the Hoover Dam.

What's most disconcerting, though, is the thought that now, when some silent-but-deadly hissssss goes wafting through the classroom, it may very well be my own. Granted, teachers are always silently blamed for students' farts. These odiferous elephants in the room seldom get pinned on their true beginnings. For years, I knew I was being blamed, even when the snorting boy in the back row clearly fogged up the place. Only now, I probably am the source of that proverbial leak.

I've become my own Deep Throat, only I'm just tattling on myself. And I sure don't see a best-selling book or movie deal in this scenario.