We went to Alison’s wedding this weekend. The weather was picture perfect and the setting was wonderfully romantic. The groom’s sister has a beautiful oceanfront, 5 bedroom property (with an indoor pool) surrounded by a swanky county club and golf course. The ceremony was in the front yard, overlooking the ocean. The champagne was flowing like water. We started drinking right away.

We danced, drank and ate all night. A wonderful time was had by all.

By the time we got back to the hotel, I was exhausted with a comfortable buzz. (Via bus, no one drove.) We opted to stay in the rest of the night and go to bed. I passed out immediately, Chris stayed up and watched TV. The next morning we woke up rested but slightly hung-over. We decided to stay in Providence and walk around. I was craving a Bloody Mary so, we stopped at a cute little café with outdoor seating. After our cocktails, we headed up the hill to explore Thayer Street, as recommended by the hostess.

We hadn’t gone 10 feet from the restaurant when Chris blurted out, “You farted on my leg last night after you passed out. In fact, I think you do it all the time.” I stopped dead in my tracks and exclaimed, “WHAT???? Please, tell me you’re joking!” “Nope,” he said, “I think it’s a thing for you.”

Can I just tell you? I couldn’t breathe! I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. I chose the former. He started laughing, too.

Maybe that’s why I’m still single?! Who knew?

As soon as I had the chance, I texted my sounding board: my sister, a friend who refers to herself privately as, Tootie MacDougal, the bride, the friend who introduced me to Chris, and another high school friend. The bride told me everyone farts in their sleep and he should be ashamed of himself for telling me. Tootie told me she’s passing her name on to me. My sister texted back the following, “In ur sleep?? Lol” My response, “Yes.” Her response, “hahahahahahahahaha!” (Compassion runs deep in my family…) The other two just laughed and said, “How embarrassing!” Yes, it was.

Whelp, I can honestly say, he’s a keeper. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is. Besides, he’s going to have to be. Apparently, I’m a farter. Or, as we say in Massachusetts, a fahta.


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