Like everything in life, farts have a time and place. But I swear I never knew they could mess up someone’s whole destiny. Especially not on the third date with the guy of my dreams. And especially not the kind that burns someone’s eyes. If God wanted us to end up together, I was literally one silent but deadly moment away from ruining His entire plan.
It happened around five years ago. At the time, I was trying to lose some weight, so I stopped eating carbs. That’s when I met my husband, Rob. He was a basketball player and, honestly, built like one of those tall dudes you see dunking on people on TV. On our first date, he booked the following two dates right away. He liked me. I liked him. Everything was going smoothly like butter.
He picked me up in a Cobra Mustang, and even though I’m not the type to fall for a car, his little show-off move seriously worked on me. I mean, after spending half my twenties sitting in dusty cars with no AC and windows that didn’t roll down, this felt like entering heaven.
We reached the restaurant, and this man started ordering food I hadn’t touched in years. I didn’t wanna look like that boring girl, so I ate everything, drank everything, laughed at everything. We even shopped later, and this man bought me an expensive pair of shoes I was secretly staring at. I was like… bro, is this love?
Then it came. Gas. And not the cute kind. It comes in two types. Either small machine gun fire or that deep stabbing pain that feels like someone is killing you slowly. I got the second one. I swear it felt like tiny forks stabbing my stomach. I didn’t wanna embarrass myself, so I told him I wasn’t feeling well and we should go home.
Inside his Cobra, he kept trying to hold my hand and ask sweet questions, but I was in pain. Bad pain. My whole stomach felt like a wrestling match. Then it hit me.
My God, I have a massive fart waiting to explode. I’m finished.
The more I held it in, the more pain shot down my legs. I even lifted myself off the seat like I was about to perform some weird gym exercise. I grabbed the door and dashboard just to survive.
“Please hurry, I’m in a lot of pain,” I whispered like I was dying.
“Should I take you to the hospital?” he asked.
How do you tell a basketball player you just started dating that the reason you’re dying is that you have to fart?
You don’t. You let the fart explain everything for you.
I couldn’t control it anymore. As much as I tried, it slowly escaped. Luckily, it made zero sound. Total ninja mode. I was sweating, praying to every god I knew that maybe he didn’t notice.
Then the smell hit. Not like a typical smell. More like something died, got buried, came back to life, and died again. And all of it was inside that car.
I panicked. “ROLL DOWN THE WINDOWS!” I screamed like a character in a horror movie.
“What? Why?” he asked, confused and scared.
“I can’t roll it down, unlock it! UNLOCK IT!”
“What is happening?” he said. And then he smelled it.
I saw his whole face change. His eyes got watery. “OH MY GOD, I CAN TASTE IT!” he yelled.
I started clawing the window like I was kidnapped. More toots started coming out, nonstop. Rob kept pressing random buttons because he couldn’t see properly through the fart fog. Instead of unlocking the window, he turned on the windshield wipers.
Pure chaos.
Finally, he managed to open the windows. We both inhaled fresh air like we almost died. I was mortified. I mean, what kind of person gasses the guy she likes this much?
The rest of the ride was silent. I still had to rush to the bathroom, and trust me, the situation was getting dangerous.
He stopped outside my place and before the car fully stopped I jumped out. “Ok thanks bye sorry for the fart love the shoes!” I said and ran inside like the cops were after me.
I practically busted through my door and sprinted to the bathroom where I unleashed noises that should honestly never be heard by any human being.
Then I heard his voice right outside the bathroom.
“Anna? You left your shoes in my car. Your door was open. Where should I put them?”
“GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR!” I yelled.
“Are you okay?”
Toot. Toot. Splatter. Whatever-that-sound-was.
“I’m fine, Rob, just leave the shoes. I’ll call you later!”
“Are you sure, because you sound like…”
“I’M FINE! GO!”
Finally, he left. I thought that was it. No man should come back after tasting a fart that wasn’t even his fault.
But he did come back. Two days later. And somehow we ended up married. Right now, he’s lying on the couch while I’m typing this, and he just said, “It was your rack that saved you.”
Well… thank you, boobs. You saved the game. You saved the destiny.
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