The other day, my friend CH told me a story. We were commiserating about how we wake up in the middle of the night. My recent struggles with sleep, I believe, are related to perimenopause. Hers, I think stress. Except the other night…
She started the story with “the other night, I woke up and pulled back the sheets…”
“And there was blood?” I guessed.
“No,” she said.
“…It was [insert husband’s name].” she continued. It was awful.”
“He peed the bed?!?” I asked even more interested in the story.
“No,” she said getting a little impatient with all my guessing. “The smell, it was unbelievable.”
“He SHIT THE BED??!??!?” I screamed.
“NO!” as she looked at me like I was insane. “He farted. And it was so bad I had to go sleep on the couch. It permeated the air–every ounce of air in our bedroom.”
“Oh.” I was disappointed. That was it? A fart? I don’t think she would survive a minute at our house. I grew up in a potty humor house, am living in a potty humor house. I, quite honestly and thankfully (given the makeup of my current household) think it’s funny. Farts are funny. Period.
Next time she comes over, hope she doesn’t sit on the couch in the family room where Jeff sits. That my friends, defines permeation.