I feel bad for my wife sometimes. I can see that look on her face; the one that says “I need air.” It happens when I have what I call emotional flatulence.
Emotional flatulence is similar to regular human flatulence in that both are unpleasant to deal with, and both usually involve hot air coming out of the server’s body at rates they can’t control.
The difference is that emotional flatulence is made up of words; many, many words that carry heavy doses of negativity and pessimism. Biological flatulence is, of course, just air.
Whereas physical flatulence is caused by digestion issues, emotional flatulence is generated by daily frustrations and irritations, usually caused by others.
My wife is too pleasant and calm to be afflicted with emotional flatulence very often. I, on the other hand, am good for about one case per week. It usually hits when I get home from a long day, several hours after my wife has settled into some sort of relaxing, evening activity.
I’m usually either hungry, under hydrated, or both. She’s usually content and starting to wind down toward bedtime.
Just like physical flatulence, emotional flatulence can sometimes be held in for a certain amount of time. That’s what I try to do- hold it in and spare innocent bystanders from having to deal with what’s inside.
It seldom works though because of the 4 magic words my wife usually can’t resist: how was your day?- or- how did it go?
Those little phrases are like the abdominal cramp that precedes physical flatulence; once it hits, you know the air is coming out, and there isn’t much you can do to stop it.
The words flow freely and quickly; reviewing in full detail every annoying, disappointing, stupid, erroneous or ridiculous thing that happened that day. Each description comes with full editorial commentary, featuring moderate hyperbole and low tolerance for alternative points of view.
Emotional flatulence isn’t loud, but the heat can be intense and sometimes relentless. Hearing it must feel the same as sitting in the car with the windows rolled up on a 95 degree day, with the heater maxed out and blowing right into your face. There’s only so much a pleasant, happy and calm wife can take.
That’s when I see the look. The subtle gasp for air. A glance toward the door. A twinge of regret. A longing for the time before I came home; before she said the 4 magic words.
But whether it’s emotional or physical, flatulence changes things. The server feels better; relieved. The receiver feels smothered; burdened.
That wasn’t the server’s intent. After all, they were trying to hold it in.
Next time I’ll try to remember to reach for the emotional antacids before the indigestion starts.
