If you’ve watched ‘The Notebook’ 10 or more times do not continue reading because you won’t give a rat’s hoot about anything that I have to say on the subject of my beau. You’re also going to spend the rest of your life being let down because who can realistically live up to the romantic notions that live inside the imagination of Nicholas Sparks? It’s simply magical.
My boyfriend is damn near the full package. Why? Because he embraces the whole me including my rashness, crassness and oft overuse of vulgarity. He understands period cramps are solid grounds for a grumpy mood and lazy day. He laughs hard at poop jokes, but can also finish a USA Today crossword in 15 minutes while simultaneously listening to an episode of ‘This American Life’. He is an advocate for gay marriage and equally so for women’s equality. He scoffs at high heels and overpriced duds. He prefers me with frizzy, natural hair, sans make-up. Tee shirt and jeans? He says “yes please”. If I were to ever come to him even slightly contemplating plastic surgery, he would figuratively slap the sense back into me. I stress figuratively.
If my boyfriend’s phone were to ring right into his ear while I’m talking, you’d never know if he heard it . When something has me vexed or blue, he wants to talk it out. We read ‘The 5 Love Languages’, god dammit! He understands that I’m ‘words of affirmation’ with a hint of ‘physical touch’ and I understand that he’s ‘acts of service’ with a hint of ‘sex makes everything better’.
We have a hundred and one things in common, we do. We love the Coen Brothers and Wes Anderson. He understands my gluttonous need for froyo on an almost daily basis. We cook interesting dinners – he even does the dishes! We love to hike, bike and take strolls. Who takes strolls in this day and age? We do! We share a curiosity of life and finding new adventures together. We’re partners and most of all, we’re best friends.
My boyfriend is truly wonderful, however, all the above being said, I’m not sure I have much more fight in me to continue in the current state of our relationship. As euphoric as things seem, I’m thoroughly exhausted – particularly my backside. Whoa there Dirty Birdie, don’t get ahead of yourself! This relationship is wearisome on my posterior as I’ve contained every single fart (or “toot” for my mother) during all waking hours for 5 and 1/2 lengthy and unrelenting years. My darling dear walks through the grocery store or sits in a restaurant and anally beatboxes for everyone around, but I have to choose between daintily sneaking away to the bathroom to “wash my hands” or suffer from a grievous bout of bloat. This is not the ‘women’s right to choose’ we are after! Guess what Guy Who Graduated From College, our digestive systems work the exact. same. way! You can’t make it through an episode of ‘Game of Thrones’ without letting it rip, but I’m supposed to go another 60 years? I’ve ignored or even giggled at your sounding ass tuba, but you’re unable to mentally digest my need to physically digest. Dating you is gastric agony.
How can the guy who takes pictures of his poop to send to his friends because it’s shaped like the breast cancer ribbon be extraordinarily appalled at a completely natural function of your very partner’s body? How can this man who wears a frowny face when I have an uncontrollable rumble in my gut be the same man, who at 37, makes me pull his finger and who also downloaded not one, but two fart apps. How can the guy who asks in a terrified and frantic voice “did you just fart” every time you hear an unidentified noise come from a room I’m in (which 95% of time time it’s not, although 100% of the time I say it’s not) be the same guy that likes to fart ON me when we’re laying on the couch and end the repugnant antic with a childish snicker?
If I were to keep this facade up, I would need to start wearing diapers at 40 because my anus will be too exhausted to hold back after all these years of working hard for your comfort, all the while causing me great discomfort, and probably cancer. The ‘act of service’ ends here, Mr. Perfection! You’re going to deal with me releasing the gastric fury I’ve pent up all these years or I’ll joyfully spend the rest of my days alone on my couch watching The Notebook, letting loose with unclenched cheeks. Oh, and guess what? I also poop.