Why We Grow Old and Fart

Much of life is perspective. I’m not sure when the shift in perspective occurs; likely it’s gradual and suddenly we are forced to reckon with it.

Take, for instance, flatulence—farting. Several years ago when still in my thirties I was behind an old lady at the grocery check-out. Every time she bent over to grab an item from her cart to place it on the counter, she released gas. How rude, I concluded.

Currently, I’m now closer to the age that woman was then, than I’m willing to admit now. Suddenly it’s come to my attention the mere act of any unexpected motion pollutes the entire perimeter and a hazmat team has to be immediately summoned.

Not being a physician, nor taking the time to Google it, it is likely more to do with muscle tone. I seem to recall times when holding it all day in high school and exploding as soon as the bus dropped me off at home. Dad told me to at least take a walk around the house before coming inside.

Back to the old lady at the grocery. There seems to be something about flatulence and grocery stores; it brings it on. There have been plenty of times I’ve planted a deadly device in an empty grocery aisle. It is best where the soaps and detergents are; they provide a layer of aromatic camouflage. Sometimes the produce section is a good place and if anyone is around, claim there must be rotten cauliflower someplace.

If it is muscle tone, is there an exercise? It seems to me if they can tighten your abs, thighs, and buns, they can do something for the muscle that controls releasing gas. Frankly, that’s the muscle anyone serious about exercising and toning up should be concerned with because every other exercise makes you vulnerable to farting. The mere sight of a Thighmaster or Stepmaster makes me want to release gas.

I don’t think it’s necessary to go as far as surgery, but I do wonder about another use for Botox. Anything that tightens up a face that looks like a deflated party balloon has to be good for something else.


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