I had been sitting
in the same chair for two hours, and I was only two thirds of the way through
my once a week Intro to American History class. The gas pains in my gut were
growing stronger and I knew that if the professor didn’t grant us a break soon
that my delicate 18 year old frame would explode outward into a giant skin-ball
before retracting into a black hole with my navel as the epicenter.
Fifteen more minutes
passed and still no break. I only had to hold on for another forty five minutes,
but the building pressure inside was starting to make me twitch with uncontrollable
spats of seizure. My choices were limited—do the unthinkable and pass gas in
class or die. I was young, only a freshman, so for me the choice was clear.
“I got this” I
thought, “I’ve done it before. Junior year of high school, third period chemistry,
blamed it on spilled sulfur. Just relax and let it happen. Wait till the
pressure subsides, give it an exit strategy, and don’t interfere. It’s as
simple as that.”