My wife and I have gone through some turbulent times. We’ve fought, we’ve drifted apart, we’ve said some nasty things to each other. I’m by no means innocent, and I’ve done things I’ve immensely regretted. I’m no saint. In fact, I’m far from it. I’ve done stuff which is pretty terrible. That’s not the point of today—though perhaps I’ll dive into that another time.
No, I explain that to illustrate that my marriage is a major source of my anxiety. Not my wife, but my marriage. It used to be my wife before I got my head sorted out. Where’s she going, who’s she seeing, who’s she texting? All the usual, really. But now it’s my marriage, and we’re both working on it. It’s slow. Slower than I would like, but we’re making progress.
So with all that in mind, why have I titled this blog about farting and happiness?
A while back now, probably two-three months, my wife and I ate something not dodgy, but… gas-inducing. Probably Chipotle (IYKYK). I was in some discomfort, and after doing all the rocking and arching, and lying on the floor, and getting the foam roller out, I took a shower. After the shower I felt much better, if you get what I mean. My wife then asked me how I was and I told her, to which she confided that while I was in the shower she was doing some HUGE farts out in the living room. That made me smile. I made a comment about how I wish I’d been there, and she responded along the lines of “don’t make me regret telling you.” Or, as I interpreted it at the time… “I’m opening up here and I’m scared, please don’t hurt me.”
What made me smile again later was when I logged into our security camera for the living room and watched her, on all fours on the sofa, beautiful ass pointing towards the camera, letting rip some of the loudest and most immense gut busters I’ve ever heard. It was magnificent. I never told her I watched it. Several times. The footage is long since gone, but when I think of it it still makes me smile. She told me about THOSE huge rumbles?! Wow!
She trusted me with that. She opened up. She made herself vulnerable. That’s something that’s been missing in our relationship for years. My wife is easily perturbed by the “gross” things, so that she was willing to tell me about it, make herself the potential victim of ridicule, of disgust, to empathize with me and also just to make me laugh along with her, was hugely heartwarming.
I love it when my wife is “gross,” because to me those things aren’t gross: they’re little peeks inside this wonderful woman I married. I love every bit of her, especially when she’s her true honest self, and isn’t hiding. I hope I continue to earn her trust back and she continues to tell me about these things, because as weird as it may be, her farts make me happy.