How My Girlfriend's Gas Led To Our Engagement

By

embarassed woman
I knew I wanted to marry my girlfriend after she farted in bed.

Me: Well, now that you've farted, we should probably break up.

Her: Turkey.

Jane calls me a turkey a lot. I'm not sure of the precise definition, but I believe that I am a turkey when I—much to her chagrin—prove myself correct on an insignificant matter. Turkey, I believe, is shorthand for: You're right, but I'm not going to say you're right.

We didn't talk about the fart after she called me a turkey. But as I held Jane in my arms, the usual BSF worries didn't run through my head. Instead I felt relieved. Her toot was an audible signal that she was comfortable with me. Joking about the fart was another example of how we manage—without drama—to laugh and talk about uncomfortable topics. Up until that moment, Jane had been hiding that fart. It was no big deal—it was just a little toot, after all—but in another sense it was a big deal. The fart marked a turning point in our relationship. It proved that we were, as Jane often puts it, "in it to win it."

I'd like to say that the BSF list evaporated as quickly as the smell that night, but that didn't happen. The BSF list became the ASF (after she farted) list. The two lists are identical. What's changed is that I no longer put much stock in those worries. Some of the items on the list still matter, but nothing trumps us. The One Feeling That Makes a Man Fall—And Stay—In Love

Two months after Jane tooted, I popped the question. She said yes. The toot didn't prompt me to ask for her hand; I had decided to propose months before.

But the decision to marry Jane wasn't the result of some dramatic epiphany. Rather, it was the culmination of insignificant moments, of which the fart was one. Individually, each of those moments are hardly worth mentioning, but collectively they mark the turning points from courtship to comfort. She wouldn't have tooted in front of any other guy, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
 

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