Funny story. After the horrors of first trimester morning sickness finally subsided, I breezed into the second trimester effortlessly. I was bouncing with energy, the bump was starting to show, I could eat for pleasure again. It was a generally nice time. One small, itty bitty thing, which didn’t bother me in the slightest but probably upset my loved ones enormously, was an increase in bodily gas. I might go as far as to describe myself as a wind machine. Available for hire at a photoshoot for long haired lovelies near you, nose plugs included.
Do you remember that episode of Sex in the City where a heavily pregnant Miranda is having some farting issues and she accidentally pulls her own finger? I found that offensive to women at the time. It ticked me off that a poor, vulnerable pregnant woman should be portrayed in such an undignified way. Ha! What a muppet I was.
I was burpy and farty. A Purple Ronnie greeting card, if you will. At home, I relished in it but at work obviously professional decorum required that I keep control of my gassiness which I did. Until one day…
…a lovely, friendly colleague of mine was showing me something on her PC. We were having a chat about something worky and then she made a joke which was pretty funny. So I laughed…and so did my bottom. A loud, high-pitched, sharp but short laugh.
There then followed an awkward 30 seconds of nervous laughter on both our parts where either she didn’t hear it or did an excellent job at pretending she didn’t hear it and I stood there praying – praying my farting ass off – that there wouldn’t be any follow up odour because there was a fairly good chance there could be.
There wasn’t. Phew.
Obviously, we never spoke of it. Not to each other anyway. I certainly didn’t mention it to a soul at work because that would be to acknowledge that it actually happened. I can only presume that she has regaled our colleagues up and down the corridors with the tale. Fair play to her if she has. I know I would.