A New Meaning to Free-Range

Alright, yes, it has been three weeks since my last post and nearly two months since my wedding and I have been side stepping complaints from a certain luncheon meat who will remain unnamed but guys. I got my dream job. A few weeks ago I started working for an animal welfare nonprofit and it rocks. It also kind of makes me feel like I’ve never worked a legitimate day in my entire life because the work is demanding and brain-energy consuming and interesting for once. I’m doing a lot of real writing which is completely different from blogging because instead of recounting the slapstick routine that is my daily existence, I’m tearing out hearts with sob stories about abused puppehs. I mist at my desk all the time. I shit you not.

So, it should come as no surprise that this one-time vegetarian is struggling with meat again (even bacon) and now refuses to consume it unless I am absolutely certain that the animal it came from was humanely raised. It should come as less of a surprise that this development has gotten me into trouble.

Two weeks ago was the wedding of Beau’s cousin in Florida. Starbucks wasn’t even open yet when we got to the airport at the ungodly hour of 4:30am that Saturday. We huddled at their gates peering through the bars to no avail until his parents found an open Dunkin Donuts further into the terminal. In addition to my new wariness of meat products (even bacon), my situation has been compounded by renewed interest in getting back into shape to avoid eventually having a TLC special made about me when they have to use a fork lift to remove me from my condo. That pretty much crossed everything on the Dunkies menu off of the list of possibilities for breakfast.

I wandered to a snack kiosk and found a stash of Fiber One bars. At 150 calories a piece, I reasoned that two would make a satisfactory and responsible meal. I ate one while paying for them and the other somewhere over Delaware. By 9am we had landed in Tampa, collected a rental car and were on our way west to a beach front hotel.

Sometime after checking in and eating lunch, Beau’s sister She-Ra and her husband arrived. We were splitting the room with them in a cost-saving measure. Her husband retired to the room for a little golf tournament surveillance while we basked around the pool. Mere pages into a new book, I realized how exhausted I was. Severe sleepiness often makes my stomach ache so between a rumbling tummy and lack of rest, I was cranky. I excused myself to the room where I figured I’d get a jump start on the shower line up before the wedding that evening.

As soon as I was out of ear shot of about a dozen in-laws, a bit of gas escaped me. I giggled in that way that you do when you are actively flatulating behind a bush in public. It ceased to amuse me by the time I reached the elevator and was making wind like a tropical storm. I greeted She-Ra’s husband and retreated to the safety of the bathroom when I could attempt to silently detonate my digestive system.

Cleaned, refreshed and partially deflated, I snuggled into my bed for a power nap. When Beau woke me later that afternoon, I knew without a doubt that I was in trouble. Tropical storm Dangerous K had upgraded to a full-fledged category one hurricane and was gaining strength on the coast of the gulf. I threw myself out of bed and poked my head into the hallway where there was a lone housekeeper slowly pushing her cart down the never ending hall. I turned around, slammed the door and hurtled across the room as fast as I could at a controlled geisha step to my last sanctuary: the balcony overlooking the tennis courts.

As soon as the glass sliding door shut, I farted like nobody’s business (yet here I am telling the internet all about it so I guess that makes my business everybody’s business actually). Sheepishly, I slunk back into the room and confessed to Beau who already knew due to my constant whining earlier that day. News travels fast in a 12’ x 12’ room. Especially when you've been tooting along in your sleep. She-Ra inquired after what I’d eaten that day and a look of horror passed across her face when I got to the Fiber One bars that I’d had for breakfast, “Aren’t each of those 35% of your daily fiber? That’s 70% of your daily fiber that you ate in one sitting.”

Well. Fuck.

That didn’t change the fact that I had to fit my bloated abdomen into a cute little dress and march myself down to a gathering of in-laws and complete strangers where we’d all sit in closs proximity and in complete silence while watching a solemn, major life event unfold before our eyes. At least it was outside.

I managed to last through the blessedly brief ceremony without embarrassing myself further than a few moments of doubled over agony and the occasional sound of reuptake – that horrendous gurgling that your intestines do when you have a fart on deck that you REFUSE to release into the wild. Even my own body is bent on my complete and utter humiliation.

After the ceremony, I tried to sneak away but was retained for family photos. I lagged behind the group that was heading for the sand dunes and snuck a few silent-but-deadlies. My newly free-range ass air swirled about and I shuffled towards the sea grass before the guy collecting the folding chairs had detected anything was amiss.

Having mastered the art of silent release, the reception was much more comfortable. I passed gas near a volley ball court, at the bar, at a cocktail table while stuffing my face with baby quiches, in at least three hallways, in the bathroom after greeting the bride at the sink, in line at the buffet and, God help me, at the dinner table seated next to a previously estranged family member. Beau, if he stops speaking to you guys again, I may know why.

So, that’s what I’ve been up to lately. Jet setting to southern states, attending family events and tirelessly lobbying for the freedom of farts, puppehs and meat. Even bacon.