The Power of Fart

Hubby and I got into a fight four nights ago. Over farting issues.

Yep, you read it right.

After a decade or so of complaining about how hearing him fart loudly--in the mornings while he's brushing his teeth, when he's in the toilet doing number two, and at nights while browsing in front of the computer--is such a turn-off, husband chose last night to get offended and went on a defensive.  "Goddamn it," he barked, "You complained so much!  I can't fart, I can't pick my nose, I can't clean my ears, I can't do anything in my own house!!!"

Naturally, I fired back, "Obviously that's not true, cos I've been saying the same thing for the last decade or so, and you're still farting, picking your nose, cleaning your ears, and doing all your personal grooming in front of me.  Do NOT make it seem as if I'm some dominant wife who's gonna whip your ass at the slightest signs of passing gas!"

Ok, while this sounded as stupid an argument as it gets, we both were pretty pissed that night and refrained from speaking to each other for the next two days. I even deleted his contact from my BB messenger (and I only do this to people I hate and don't want to be friends for like, ever).  I know, I know, that was pretty immature of me...

But really, if I knew married life would involve witnessing my "prince charming" engage in the following activities: compulsive removal of ear-wax in my presence, constant extraction of dried nasal mucus or foreign bodies from the nose with a finger (sometimes two), incessant expulsion of gas accompanied by several high-sounding "toot" that varies in duration, and habitual scratching of his scrotum, I would probably have opted for the joy of single life.  Or at least tracked down a way better looking guy.  One whose face would pretty much makes up for just about anything--questionable hygiene and habits included--assuming he's also stupid enough to want to marry an average looking, uninspired, and obstinate gal like me.

Seriously, as if married life isn't hard enough with the customary display of bed head look (I'm talking about the frightful, not the sexy, Hollywood version kind) and morning breath! 

Let's face it ladies, nowadays the likelihood of me getting struck by lightning (1:500 000) has sadly surpassed the likelihood of me getting overcome by burning lust for my husband (try 1: never).  You know that famous King of Leon's song, "Sex on Fire?"  My version would be more like "Sex on Hold... until further notice."  Gone were the days where we would give up our beauty sleep in the middle of the night for a quick romp under the sheets.

Don't get me wrong, I love my husband.  But over the years, the all-consuming lust has turned into something that is more akin to affection.  You know, the warm comfy feeling you have for your teddy bear back when you were a little girl?  The one you used to snuggle to and helped you sleep better?  (Well yeah, the same one you used to bang on the floor while you threw a tantrum fit, causing it to lose one eye, but hey, that's besides the point).

While one could argue that this is probably why my sex life is just as exciting as having tea with a paddington bear, at least I don't have to wear my make-up and those itchy lingerie to bed anymore.  It's all about comfort now, mate!  I guess the same must have happened for my husband.   Judging from the ease with which he performs the acts of releasing gas and removing unwanted stuff from his nose and ears in front of me, now I wonder just how comfortable things have gotten between us.  Well, comfortable for him.  Not so much for me.

After two days of pretending we were invisible to each other, hubby raised a white flag, thereby putting a short end to our silent war on day #2.  He agreed to try to improve his manners pertaining to grooming and releasing gas, and I acquiesced to turn a blind eye to some possible "faux-pas" in the future (provided they are isolated cases that are neither avoidable nor controllable, like diarrhea for example).

Since then, it was all calm and peaceful on both fronts.  I started to rebuild my faith in the good of mankind, and was just starting to hope that perhaps sans all the farting, the nose-picking, the ear cleaning, and the toe clipping I would finally be able to relate to that "Sex on Fire" song, when a familiar "toot" sound came from not too far a place.  Across from me, to be exact.  Where my husband is sitting in front of the computer.