During lunch at work, I indulged in three plates of beans (a choice I knew I’d regret).
When I got home, my husband was unusually excited to see me. “Darling, I’ve got a surprise for dinner tonight!” he said with a grin.
Before I could respond, he blindfolded me and led me to the dining room. I took a seat, feeling curious but slightly nervous.
Just as he was about to remove the blindfold, the phone rang. “Don’t peek!” he warned, rushing off to answer the call.
Now, those beans were starting to make their presence known. The pressure was building, and with my husband occupied, I figured it was the perfect chance to relieve some of it.
So, I carefully shifted my weight to one side and let out a tiny, quiet one—well, not so tiny or quiet.
The smell hit me instantly, like a compost truck had collided with a skunk in the dead of summer. Panicked, I grabbed my napkin and fanned the air wildly.
Emboldened, I shifted to the other side and released a few more, each one worse than the last.
It smelled like boiled cabbage left to rot in the sun. I kept an ear on my husband’s phone conversation while continuing my unholy gas escapade.
The relief was euphoric, and I sat there fanning the air like my life depended on it.
Finally, I heard him wrapping up his call. Quickly, I smoothed my dress, placed the napkin back on my lap, and folded my hands, looking the picture of innocence.
He returned, apologizing for the delay and asked if I had peeked. “Of course not!” I replied sweetly.
With a proud flourish, he removed the blindfold, and there, staring at me in horror, were twelve dinner guests—hands covering their noses—shouting, “Happy Birthday!”
