Smoke and Mirrors

   In an earlier post, I alleged a begrudging reconciliation with my creeping-up, old age. An acceptance of gravity's negative effect on my once buoyant body parts. A deference to time running its natural course.

   But the winds of change have struck again. Now I must vent my spleen because my antiquity has plunged to alarming new lows, causing an intestinal disquietude, bent on venting my colon.

   Yes, folks, I am going to go there. It's time to air it out.

   In my late twenties, a male companion of mine commented about his amazement with females' ability to never pass gas. He noted his reverence for our stubborn resolve to withhold airing our discomfort. He joked about his anxiety for our collective well-being, his fear that at any moment a woman in his company might combust like a shaken can of soda, setting off a contagion of eruptions among the other females, like the exploding of a string of firecrackers. One woman after another blown to bits by her own obstinate decorum.

   He wasn't exactly right. But back then I could hold it in with ease.

   That was then, this is now.

   Maturity has ripened me, I admit. The vapors waft up, pungent and fermented. Mustered into the sweet, horseradish-y aroma akin to mustard gas. And always, always, at the most inopportune times.

   For instance, at the office, speaking with a co-worker, I feel the pressure building. I grasp for a piece of paper to crackle in my hand, to disguise the noise. No paper in reach, I tap my fingernails on a counter top or wall, a deluded confidence in my ability to conceal my defective social graces.

   But the worst, the absolute worst of it, is during my massage sessions. Face-down on the table, my tummy gurgles. The magma brewing in the caldera. I squirm. I tense. I clench. Actions all counter to the purpose of being on the table in the first place.

   Perhaps, rather than struggling against it, I should just do the massage therapist a courtesy, warn her to step away. Like in Army basic training when shooting a grenade launcher, we were taught to warn those behind us with the phrase 'back blast area all clear.' Would that not be an appropriate way to protect my unsuspecting masseuse, who, as bad timing would have it, always seems to have her face directly above the escape hatch. I should probably tip her better.

   Recently I made chili for dinner on a Friday night. The following week, my husband suggested I eat the leftover chili for lunch...on a work day? Inconceivable. When it takes so much effort to control it as is, I'm certainly not going to egg it on.

   I suppose I should contact that old friend of mine and give him the peace of mind of knowing there's no longer much threat of spontaneous combustion. In fact, I've read that flatulence is a sign of good health. That being the case, I fear I may be immortal.