Short term, it’s all frolicking and fornication. It’s about bragging to your friends about exciting rendezvous and revelling in lust. Butterflies on the first date, a box of chocolates sent to secure a second – everything is so damn shiny.
Long term is another thing entirely. Some see it as a slow progression into sexless mediocrity. Those with a more positive attitude think about it in terms of growing intimacy and developing companionship. I’m a fence sitter. I’m hoping extra life experience will help me develop a moderately sound opinion.
Now, I’ve been with the same fellow for around eighteen months now, and I really can’t complain. We have fun together. Just quietly, we’re pretty great. Short story, he loves me and I love him, everything is roses.
There’s one thing though – one insignificant thing.
I really shouldn’t gripe.
Except, my word, it’d take your breath away – the flatulence.
They say that love changes over time and they’re not wrong. You know you’re in for the long haul when you actively go along with requests to “get the fart sheet.”
The fart sheet is just a spare flat sheet that goes unshared in a patently shared bed. The pillows are evenly divided. You could draw a line down the centre of the doona to demarcate our shares. The fart sheet, however, is his. The system has been designed to protect me from the perils of escaped fluffs.
It’s not flowers; it’s not a spontaneous trip to the seaside; it’s not dinner at a needlessly expensive restaurant – it is however, a strange little act of affection.
I see it as a marker of comfort and caring. For me, the fart sheets says, “I can be myself around you and I want to look out for you”. Really though, if the fart sheet could talk, it would say “sweet Mary, mother of god, what hell-beast has been unleashed from this child’s devil bowels? Why have I been forsaken?”
I’m weirdly proud of the fart sheet and I sincerely hope the spirit of the fart sheet manifests itself in little acts of kindness for many years to come.