Last night, both of us getting ready to turn in for the evening were undressing, putting laundry away, brushing our teeth, etc… the typical nightly routine one goes through after being married nearly 5 years. No more secrets. The toothpaste you put on your pimple so that it dries up by morning? Your husband sees it, and if he’s cool enough, he’ll try out your toothpaste on his next zit.

“Sorry…” Paul says as I walk from our bathroom, into our bedroom.

“Sorry for what?” I respond, wondering what I missed while I was washing my face. Then I smell it… the oh sweet Jesus, what crawled up in your ass, died, and began rotting fart. My eyes watered.

“For the love of all that is holy, Paul!” I said, hardly able to breathe. The look on his face was of sincere apology as he too had to endure the wrath of his own digestive tract.

“Yeah, that one’s bad,” he admitted.

I pull down our duvet and fluff the pillows in an attempt to move beyond the fart and continue with our nightly routine. After a few minutes, the smell dies down (or my nose just becomes immune). Paul and I each get in bed. I pull up the covers, open my book, and then…

“Sorry, again…” is quietly uttered from his mouth. I look at him and think to myself, why on earth do you always mumble? And then I realize why.

“Are you kidding me?! Seriously, Paul!!!” I say, sitting straight up in bed, looking for an escape, this time clearly unable to breathe. The dog even smells it and buries his face in his bed in an attempt to cover his nose.

“Can you not get up and go in the bathroom or something?” I say out of desperation, wanting to hide under the covers from the rancid smell of his ass, but knowing that would be far from a safe haven.

“Yeah, I guess I could,” he responds, again feeling bad for the smell his body has projected into our bedroom.

“I will next time.”

Yeah. Right.