Fart. . .

—From CB—

I fart a lot. More than I ought to. I guess it comes with age, though I haven’t noticed it in other geezers. It may be that somehow you just don’t worry so much about it, or that it’s not as noticeable as it seems. True, you don’t want to add to usual complaints about the old: we’re either crotchety or spry, we’re forgetful, we’re stuck back in the 1900’s, we’re hanging on to milk Medicare. Indeed, writing a blog about it won’t win any friends, influence people, advance the career, or even get out the vote. It’s just one of the messy features of getting old instead of buying the farm, like so many of my friends.

Not that it happens all the time. I can sit through whole spans of time without the tell-tale tail blurt. I can go to concerts or poetry readings with confidence that I won’t disrupt proceedings with eruptions. Yet sometimes the bus comes out of nowhere when I’m walking or rising or just looking at the trees in the wind. Suddenly, I’m all too human.

It’s a sign of degeneration. Like the speed with which I type, it draws an unusual focus. It excuses me from thinking deep thoughts. It’s little different from walking over rutty ground: I once did it without thinking, but now it requires a focus on balance, like stumbling onto my legs learning to walk at eighteen months.

It depends so much on whether there are other people about. It’s expected of a baby, but you’re long since out of a diaper. And people proliferate: what once would have been a walk among trees, you likely encounters hordes of fellow humans, forming tours of tourists, wedding parties, or football teams on an outing. The populace proliferates.

All you can do is look the other way. You can look as if you were moved to ask, “Who farted?” but had the good breeding to pretend not to notice. But it takes you back to grade school. Next stop will be kindergarten’s nappy time, when you get your sleep-mat from your cubby and lie there twitching until it’s time to get up and fingerpaint.

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