To Fart, or Not to Fart?

The turmoil of deciding to keep the butt cheeks clinched or let it rip when trapped on a plane.

The flight from San Angelo was just a short hop, skip, and jump to the Houston-Galveston airport, but my stomach was rumbling like a 7.0 on the Richter Scale since I caught the first flight out at 5:00.

Conscientious about my particular diet (i.e. being allergic to eggs and trying to shed some pounds), I made some healthy breakfast decisions during my two-hour layover and started to believe my subscription to Noom was finally paying off. Other than the mimosa, I think I did pretty damn well.

After a few hours of surfing social media and watching YouTube videos, it was time to head to the gate for my final destination.

My stomach continued to gurgle, but I ignored it since the flight from Houston-Galveston to Pensacola was not going to be long.

That was a big mistake and the longest two hours of my life.

Waiting in line to scan my boarding pass, I examined my ticket to determine what seat I’d been assigned: 18D. Not only did I get assigned a middle seat, but I was also smacked in the middle of the whole plane. Taking in a deep breath to calm my anxiety, I chanted my plane mantra: “I’ll be there before I know it.”

As I shuffled my way to 18D, I sneaked glimpses of my seat partners. To my right was an old lady reading a book about quilting and to my left was a grumpy middle-aged man who looked like he had just lost everything at the casino and was running on an hour’s worth of sleep and no coffee.

So far, the thought of being able to keep my headphones in and dodge any potential conversations seemed promising.

Putting my carry-on in the overhead compartment, my gut took an express elevator to my intestines. Dear God, please do not let this be another “I shit my pants” incident like what happened in 2020.

Hiding my sudden concern, I politely point to my seat. Hearing a huff from the grumpy bastard who would be accompanying me through the flight, I squeezed past him and plopped into my seat. Pulling the seatbelt from under my bum, I could feel a small gas bubble squeak past.

Oh no, this is starting just like the 2020 incident. Heavenly Father, please do not let this happen to me again.

Ever since I got my gallbladder removed, I’ve been trying to gauge when I need to be near a toilet. What is causing this gut-ruckus? Was it the sautéed mushrooms? Maybe it was the mimosa? Regardless, as soon as that unfasten seatbelt sign turned off, I was going to make a beeline for the bathroom.

One eternity later, our plane finally left the taxi lane and turned onto the runway. Finally hearing the engines at full throttle, I felt the plane take off and plank to our heading. After a few minutes, the plane leveled off and I could feel the beads of sweat accumulating along my hairline.

Before I knew it, a miracle happened and I heard the “ding” of the fasten seatbelt sign flash off. Ripping off my seatbelt like it was a snake squeezing the life out of me, I turned to my aisle-mate and my heart sank:

He had fallen asleep.

Damn it! Do I wake him? I could tell he already didn’t like me. He’d probably hate me more if I let this rip next to him. After all, I’m a firm believer that farts are just the screams of trapped poop. Then it dawned on me: What if it’s shit and not a fart? Or worse, what if it’s a shart!

Feeling my butt pinching itself into a cramp, I bite my lip and give him a gentle tap on the arm. Not waking up, I saw a woman walk past and head to the bathroom. Crap! One restroom is occupied now. Looking ahead at the first-class cabin, I saw that one toilet was still available despite the fear that it was a mile from my row.

Tapping the man again, I risked his disgust towards me. After all, we are likely never going to see each other again after we depart the plane. Peeling his eyes open, he unlatched his seatbelt and let me squeeze by. As I sucked in my belly to politely shimmy in front of him and not disturb the gentleman in the next row, I could tell my butt was starting to lose its pucker.

Reaching the aisle, I headed to the restroom like I was about to finish first in a race. Sashaying my way forward, I was suddenly cut off by the drink cart.

Glaring at the stewardesses, I couldn’t help but mutter “You motherf*ckers” under my mask.

Retreating to the rear restroom, I felt my body weakening and I feared I was going to crop dust the whole plane. Finally reaching the back, I lay claim to a small piece of territory in front of the lavatory door.

Pacing and praying, I felt the cold sweat pricking my skin. Either I was going to fart a small atomic plume or I was going to give birth to a Golgothan.

Hearing the door unlatch, it finally opened like the Pearly Gates and I pushed the occupant out of my way. Slamming the door, I ripped off my pants, popped a squat on the toilet, and let my body release. Practically in tears that I made it with no embarrassment, I started counting my lucky stars.

Then my fear set in again… There was no toilet paper.

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