Letting One Out

fart


I was at a conference last week. The days were filled with laughter and love—always good for the soul. There is one thing about conferences, though, that I never miss: fast food.

My diet for the day in question looked something like this:

  • Cereal
  • Coffee
  • Sandwich
  • Soda
  • More coffee
  • A grease-filled dollar menu

We started out the evening session by singing and getting enthusiastic in the mosh pit. I was squished between hundreds of ardent worshippers and the chairs of the guest speakers.

My science teacher taught me that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Who knows what chemical reaction occurred in the bowels of my being, but as we swayed our way into spiritual ecstasy, I felt air bubbles travel down to my cheeky parts. On other occasions, this isn’t so much of a problem. I can open a window, yell, “Who did that?” or point a finger at a teenage boy. Clenching every few seconds, I tried to get back in the flow, but all I could think of was how smelly my gaseous fumes could sometimes be, and I did not (for obvious reasons) want to rush them into the nasal passages of the giants of the faith behind me. They might have lost faith in the statement that God is good all the time.

Teenage boy said I could have done one of two things he often does.

  1. Run the minute the gas escapes, until you are so far away it looks like it was someone else’s fault.
  2. Casually walk away as if you have to do something and then walk back when you have counted down the minutes it would take the AC to suck the poison away.

I really could not consider either. It looks very unspiritual to be swaying in the spirit one moment and then do a runner out the back door. It makes you look like you need deliverance, and I like to look cool. Inside, though, I was starting to sweat.

Somehow I managed to hold on until the bass stopped vibrating into my shoe leather. I sighed in happy relief. All was well with my coolness factor. I turned to leave, only to discover that none of the speakers had yet arrived, so all of my butt clenching was in vain. I’d had a good 3 feet of air space, and I wouldn’t have cared as much about the thoughts of the of lesser beings in the second row . . . purely because they were not famous.

 The morals of the story are these:

  1. Don’t mix soda and grease at conferences
  2. Don’t position yourself near anyone you want to appear cool to.
  3. Never assume people are where they think they are—if you look, you can save yourself a lot of mental strain.

 On the positive side of things, though, my glutes had a great workout. :D

About the author

Copywriter, copy editor, spiritual life/dream/business coach, entrepeneur, strategist, counselor, writer, seeker, thinker, facilitator, mediator, bossypants, housework avoider, busybody, mother, wife, Jesus lover

5 Comments

  1. Sharon O'Neal says:

    All I can say, Sally, is that you were not alone in your dilemna! Need I say more?

    Reply
  2. Miles O'Neal says:

    So long as you’re a couple of feet away and no one is kneeling or sitting directly behind, while the bass is vibrating is the perfect time to let go!

    Also, you could have just started running around the sanctuary and waving your arms. Not only would you look cool, you’d probably start a glory train or something. Farting as prophetic worship.

    Meanwhile thanks for the warning to never be right behind you at a conference!

    Reply
  3. Lisa Mikitarian says:

    My goodness, Sally! You are disturbed, funny, and a person I could live with! Thanks for the laugh–did my gluts good:)

    Reply

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