This weekend was the first in quite some time that I've had overnight guests in my home. What originally was supposed to be one night happily turned in to three. Five of us spent the vast majority of our time together: Eating, playing, traveling back and forth. My son was a super host to our younger guests and made me proud, as always. Everyone got along as well as I could have hoped and observed the one rule I have for house guests: Don't set anything on fire.
I didn't realize until late yesterday afternoon, though, just how much I have become accustomed to my privacy and the freedom to do what I want when I want and where I want when I am at home. One activity in particular is one of my favorites (and I'm guessing might be some of yours, too). Under normal circumstances, I can do it in the kitchen, living room, on the stairs and--of course--in my bedroom without worrying. I try to make sure I am alone but sometimes my kid catches me. I refuse to be ashamed of myself because it's only natural. Sure he complains, but he's young and he'll get over it. He does it, too, and is better than me most times.
So last night I had my house back, and whatever inhibitions I had over the weekend were gone. Actually I felt like I was making up for lost time because I went at it with a vengeance. Felt good, too! I admit it: I love it. What a release! Like a balloon that you let go before tying it, I sputtered all over the place and it was so nice to not have to worry who might be coming around the corner. What a glorious thing the F word is. Farting. Farting makes me happy.