Column: Toot-toot-a-toot, Mrs Robinson
FollowLast week, I began a Sex And The City rewatch. I usually rewatch the series once every three years, circulating seasons as I please, or as I did this time, just plough on through from season one onwards. As a result, I usually forget all the episodes in season one, and each time I'm surprised by how much I enjoy the early days of Carrie &co. There's so much covered in the early seasons that just becomes romantic drama in the later ones—from men who only sleep with models, to meeting your boyfriend's mother, to farting in bed. It's that last one that stays with me and I think stays with all of us (Recently referenced in this Ladies Finger article as well:http://theladiesfinger.com/spitting-on-heroes/). Which woman hasn't been embarrassed the first time she tooted in front of a new lover?
When I first started dating my partner, I met two good friends for dinner. They had been married for a year or two at that point and looked upon me and my new relationship benevolently. “Of course,” said my girl friend, “The true test is whether you can fart in front of each other.” I gasped, and sputtered and said that I never farted, that was disgusting, and if I needed to do something gross like that I'd go to the bathroom and do it quietly. The couple looked at each other and laughed. “We'll see,” said my guy friend, “But remember, it's a sign of true love.”
Forget farting, for over a year, I couldn't poop if my partner was in the same room as me. Which was easy enough to manage if we were in Delhi (where I lived) or Bombay (where he lived), but give me a hotel room and I was blocked up for days. “It can't be good for you,” he said eventually, and I felt the same way. I was bloated and unhappy, not the best way to be on a beach holiday. For that problem I started to take discreet Ayurvedic laxatives, for the farting problem, I still didn't see why we had to let it all hang out.
Read more: Fur Or Feather, We Belong Together
Until one day, laughing very hard, there it was—my first fart. It was quite a sweet fart as far as farts go—a low toot, but I was so embarrassed, I blushed furiously. (Carrie got dressed, ran out of the flat and proceeded to overthink it for the next week. At least I wasn't that neurotic.) But the fart was out and I couldn't put it back in as much as I wanted to. Of course he laughed, and of course I pretended to punch him, but we had—unknown to me—crossed a new barrier in our relationship. I could suddenly poop in hotel rooms, even though he was right outside, and I didn't need the laxatives any more. We settled, that word that Punjabi aunties love.
I'm still not one of those girls who farts and burps in abandon. I sort of envy them the casual way they do it, but my relationship with my bowels is a complex thing. However, I'm beginning to see the value of being comfortable with the farts, just as my friends predicted I would. Look, I even admitted the fact that occasionally I am gassy on a public forum like this one. Progress!
Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan is the author of five books, most recently a YA novel about divorce called Split and a collection of short stories about love called Before, And Then After. The views expressed here are her own.
