I farted at the Museum
What doesn't kill you...makes you want to die.
Last week it was a lovely Sunday morning in Edinburgh. The sun was shining, cherry blossom trees were in bloom, birds were singing, and my body woke up early naturally - for a change. I decided it was then the perfect day to have a date with myself, which is something I like to do from time to time.
A date with myself often consists of a nice day out in the city. I go for a delicious breakfast or brunch (though I have to control myself to not end up at the same paella stall every Sunday on Stockbridge Market), see an exhibition or visit a castle, maybe browse some charity shops and independent markets, and basically wander around. It’s kind of a bougie day where I treat myself like the fucking princess I am. I indulge. I don’t let them eat cake cos I had already planned to eat it all myself. I basically do anything I fancy that day that (my) money can buy. And in a less superficial level, it’s a good way for me to remember that no matter how many friends I have or how blissful my love life is at the moment, it’s important to keep nurturing the relationship I have with myself by spending time on my own doing stuff that makes me happy. Last but not least, is my way to renew vows with this city that I love so much. Sometimes one just forgets how lucky it is to get to call Edinburgh home. (!!!)
Do you remember that episode of Sex and the City (S05E01) in which Carrie says her true love is the unpredictable New York and that she likes to go on dates with the city? Well, now combine that with Tom and Donna’s Treat Yoself from Parks and Recreation and you get the gist.
So I decided it was time to start my day out by soaking in some culture at the Scottish National Gallery. I dressed cool but comfy and I even tried a new shade of lip color (brown! bold choice!). The only cloud on my Sunday morning was how bloated I woke up. One year and two months in this relationship and I’m still in the phase of holding my farts. Why? I wish I knew. I just do it. And now that we are living together, it has become for me the 2022 Olympics of Fart Holding. And I am a gold medallist.
I am what my boyfriend decided to call “a shy pooper” which means that under no circumstance I won’t let anyone know that I can be able to fart and poop. I will somehow find a way to make absolutely no sound in the bathroom. A soundproof bathroom is one of my ideas of domestic heaven, thanks for asking. I’d rather let people think I went to the toilet to snort a line of coke the length of my arm that to make them suspect I am about to drop out of my delicate and perfumed body a turd the size of a newborn’s head.
I know it’s silly, ok? But it’s a journey! And I’ll get there…eventually.
Maybe Carrie can word this in a better way (again):
So there I was, at the National Gallery, in a room dead silent and not full of people, but definitely with some people in it. I started sensing it, the need to let a lil innocent fart go -after all, I don’t even know these people!- that feeling of “If I don’t fart now, my belly is gonna hurt for the next hour and I’m gonna die”.
Well, I wish I had, cos what it followed was worst than death itself. A massive fart bubble erupted from my behind, not even with some gracious-cute sound. No, it was the kind of sound that should come with a subtitle that reads: “Man, it feels good to be out!”.
After that, time stopped -the same time as my heart- and all I could feel was SILENCE. I swear to God I hadn’t felt this embarrassed in ages - my ears and arms were burning and feeling shaky and I think I got dizzy for 5 minutes.
Of course, there was no way for the rest of the people in that room to know that the author of such cacophony was me, the naive-looking blonde with short hair and mustard trousers, but I really think the fact that my face was turning redder and redder by the second completely gave me away.
But that was it. Then it passed.
People around me in that room moved on with their lives faster than I could locate the closest open window to jump from. Probably they would forget about this before the day ended. Probably before they even left the museum. God bless our 21st-century short attention span. I quickly learned this was not the end of the world, it was just some unfortunate gas, and I would be crazy to let that ruin my day! So whoever said that you never learn anything new in a museum clearly never had to hold a fart in a room with people. There are certainly more pressing issues in the world right now and me liberating flatulence is not one of them.
This day with myself was supposed to make me feel like a princess, but instead, it made me realize, in the most embarrassing but also best way, that I might be just a bit more complex than that, thank God.
I left the museum with a mischievous smile on my face. Maybe Julius Caesar came, saw, and conquered, but for the moment it’s just enough for me to say that I came, I farted…and I survived!