Getting Old Stinks, Literally

I can’t wait until I’m 50 years old. That’s when I become a Senior Citizen. Once I become a “senior,” I’ll get to join all kinds of clubs and organizations with assorted perks made just for me: AARP, special health insurance supplements; discounts on movies, airline tickets, meals, hotels, etc.

But around the age of 65 I’ll get to join the best group of all, the I’m-old-so-when-I’m-flatuent-I-get-to-let-‘er-blow-when-and-where-ever-I-want-to club, the “let-‘er-blow” club for short.

All those years of painful discomfort, fighting to hold in my flatulence when in public, will come to an end. Yes, instead of being an unwilling spectator of the wind section of the “Senior Citizen Orchestra,” I’ll (while eating in a restaurant, browsing at a book store, shopping at the supermarket, or in the middle of a conversation), get to actually participate in said orchestra. I’ll just let ‘er rip, and then carry on as if nothing happened. Or I’ll blame it on my medicine. Either way I’ll get an automatic pardon because of my age.

This will be especially welcomed if I’m still single at the time I join the club. Ooooh the pain and misery I’ve suffered over the past few years with a belly full of methane while on a date. Let me tell you, sitting through dinner at a restaurant, while bloated like a cow loose in the alfalfa field, anxiously waiting for my date to excuse herself to the bathroom so I can let the flatulence fly, is inhumane torture beyond belief.

I mean, sitting in a booth at an I-HOP (I like to impress my dates by taking them to high class restaurants), trying to concentrate on the dinner conversation, while my stomach is rumbling, groaning, and growling, is a tough act to pull off.

Now, changing sitting positions in an effort to relieve the discomfort isn’t an option. There’s just too good a chance the movement will allow one of those high pitched, pinched-off, squeakers to sneak out, and try as I might to convince my date the noise was from scooting on the seat and not from intestinal distress, she’ll know better and my facade as a cultured, couth, gentleman will be blown (pun intended) out of the water.

But when I hit that mystical number, where all things uncouth are excused on account of age, I won’t have to worry about that anymore. I’ll be able to “sneeze” in my pants and my date won’t even care--she’ll probably be doing the same thing, maybe even trumpeting the song Dixie just for my amusement.

Lest you think this happens all at once, well, it doesn’t. It’s a gradual process.

It starts sometime in your mid to late 40s when, for some inexplicable reason, you start having the “sneak-up flatulence.” Up until this point in your life you’ve been able to hold in or let out your flatulence at will, making an art of releasing it when goofing with friends, siblings and the like; or holding it in while in public.

But as you creep ever so closely to 50 years of age the sneak-ups start in, and though you’re positive you have the gas valve closed, an unannounced, unfelt, bubble or two of methane will bust loose, catching you totally unaware, and leaving you red-faced, searching for someone on whom to place the blame.

Next, usually while in your 50s, comes the “walking flatulence.” By this time you’ve learned that the best thing to do, when bloated with a belly full of methane is, well, nothing. Don’t move, don’t speak, and especially don’t laugh. Keep as much pressure off of your stomach as you possibly can.

But sometimes this just isn’t possible. You have places to go, people to meet. You don’t always have the luxury of sitting still until the attack subsides.

So, you carefully stand up from a sitting position, and since no flatulence escapes, you’re confident you have everything under control and start walking. That’s when it happens.

You take your first step forward and POP, a methane bubble bursts, and with each consecutive step there after another POP! By the time you’ve taken 10 steps you sound like a fully operational Gatlin gun. War veterans in the room will scramble for cover, while everyone else doubles over with laughter (why is flatulence so funny anyway?).

There’s no way you can pin the deed on someone else; not with the walking flatulence. It’s just all too obvious where those rapid-fired gas bubbles came from, especially if you’re the only one in the room walking.

You can’t blame the incident on medicine either. No one will believe you. They’ll think you’re too young to be on the kind of medication (what ever kind that is) that gives you intestinal problems, so all you can do is politely say, “Excuse me,” and continue on your way.

The sneak-ups and the walking flatulence are just a prelude to what awaits you down the road of life. Sometime, while in your sixties, all ability to shut down the gas pipeline leaves you. Whether it’s due to medication, as so many claim, an aging digestive system, or you’re old and tired and just don’t care anymore, who knows? But it seems between ages 65-70 all pretense of at least trying to hold back the nauseous fumes is gone.

Oh, you’ll still utter an occasional, “excuse me,” or explain it away with some kind of medical excuse, but mostly you'll smile or look straight forward, acting as if you don’t know what everybody is gasping about. And everybody in the room, especially the young, will let it slide. Why? You’re old and can’t help it, and that, my friends, is when you know you’ve arrived, when you know you’ve been admitted into that exclusive “let-‘er-blow” club.

So, instead of dreading the aging process I say embrace it! Look forward to it with a smile as you think of all the advantages that await you.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I must leave you—dinner has digested and I think I’m about to have a, shall we say, senior moment?