Traumarama...

Yesterday, while lifting with one of the trainers at the gym, I passed gas. To be fair, I was lifting a lot. And I guess I strained a little...um, too much. Unfortunately, this particular fart was of the silent-but-deadly variety. I felt it, but was unable to control it. In desperation, I started to inhale deeply in the hopes that I would somehow be able to suck all the odor in before it reached the nostrils of said trainer.

I am pretty sure all this deep breathing - while still lifting - made me look and sound freakish. But I had to try and control it. Doing nothing wasn't an option.

And then, despite my effort, the smell hit.

To the trainer's credit, he handled the situation in a very mature and professional manner. Meaning, of course, that he pretended nothing was happening. Except I heard his voice crack when the aroma hit him. I saw his eyes start to water, and I noticed when he attempted to hold his breath. And yet, through it all, he continued to count my reps. If only the smell wasn't so repulsive, I might have allowed myself to believe that he was oblivious to the situation. But, of course, he wasn't. I could see it in his eyes. And in the way fled from the immediate area after my set was over.

When I told Trevor about My Horrible Moment, he giggled like a little school girl. Why does flatulence bring out the seven year old boy in grown men? Why couldn't Trevor lie to me and tell me that it wasn't that bad? That my farts smell of flowers? That the trainer didn't notice? Instead he just chuckled and said, "that's awesome".

It is very possible that my life is now over. I am not sure that smells like that can be forgotten. And I don't want to be forever remembered as That Girl. That Girl WIth The Gas.

Oh, horrors.