Busters. Breezers. Pooters. Tooters

I guess I was in my late 30s when I first became aware of aging. It was when I became a Farter.

Up until that point, for me, farting, or I should say, not farting, was about aspiration and achievement. My dad farted. My mom farted. My brothers farted. My sister farted. I did not.

I associated farting with the fact that my dad regarded boxer shorts--just boxer shorts--as acceptable attire. I associated farting with the fact that we ate dinner at the table without tablecloth or placemats and with a diverse array of silverware, much of which my dad had stolen from the airlines. (Yes, once upon a time all flights included dinner, and dinner came with actual silverware. And my dad stole it all. He also regularly stole silverware from restaurants. We weren't a poor family. We could afford forks. But my dad liked stealing stuff. I think I was in junior high when I first realized that other families did not load up their pockets and coat sleeves with cutlery.) I associated farting with Kool cigarettes and Mogen David wine and clothes from K-Mart and burping and Icecapades and bowling and painting by number.

People that I admired did not fart. My urbane Uncle (by marriage) Rick, who immigrated from the Netherlands and could speak seven languages, did not fart. Our minister, Rev. Van Der Velde, who read the Scripture texts in Hebrew or Greek to prepare his weekly sermon, did not fart. Mr. Groenhuis, who went to work in a suit and tie rather than khaki-like fatigues stamped with his name over the pocket, did not fart. No one on television farted. The articles in Better Homes and Gardens, that I devoured at my grandmother's (my mom only subscribed to the denominational magazine and Moody Monthly), never mentioned farting. The people in those photo spreads, with their matching silverware, unconnected to any airline whatsoever, their placemats, their furniture unmarred by dog hair or jello stains or gouges dating from my brother's pocket knife obsession, never ever farted. And so I did not either.

Until I reached my late 30s. And then, suddenly, came the farts. The gas. The stink. The sound. Oh. The sound. To my horror, I discovered I possessed an unsought, unwanted, unexpected dramatic talent for thunderous, downright symphonic farts. Clearly I was ill. I pestered my doctor. Tried Beano. Researched digestive complaints. Then I joined my sister and uncle (the urbane Uncle Rick) for a holiday in the Netherlands. And, confronted with my farting (we were sharing a room), she said with utter unconcern, "Oh, it's just because you're getting old."

I had no idea. No one had warned me. No one had alerted me that a future of unabated farting awaited.

I dine on placemats. I use cloth napkins. I do not smoke. I shop at Eddie Bauer. I drink dry white wine. I married a man who does not walk around the house in his boxer shorts.

But I fart. My sons, born in my 30s, have no idea that I was once a woman who did not fart. They only know the explosive, embarrassing me. I long for them to see the woman that once was, riding her bike through the streets of Chicago, dodging buses and taxi cabs, charming professors and janitors and politicians--and never ever ever farting.