We’ve Reached the “Deciphering Farts” Stage of Love

There comes a point in every great love story when the butterflies settle, the romantic dinners become sweatpants on the couch, and you find yourselves having serious, investigative conversations about farts.

Jet and I have officially arrived.

We’re no longer asking “Do you love me?” We’re asking, “What the hell did you EAT?” We’re analyzing frequency, potency, possible dietary causes, and whether whatever is currently crawling out of this man’s ass is medically concerning or simply an act of domestic terrorism.

Last night, things escalated to the point where I informed him that he may have to sleep upstairs because he was actively gassing Sugar Bear and me out of the living room. And listen—I love this man. Fairytale, soulmate, once-in-a-lifetime kind of love.

But even Cinderella would’ve opened a damn window.

We actually discussed what he yesterday in an attempt to identify the culprit. Dairy? Meat? Some rogue vegetable? Is his digestive system angry? Is something fermenting in there? DO WE NEED TO CALL SOMEONE?

So there you have it. This is apparently what true intimacy looks like in your 40s: finding the love of your life and then conducting a full forensic investigation into why his ass smells like something died in the ceiling.

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love may occasionally sleep upstairs.