Anti-fart Juice

I snacked on some weeks-old watermelon today. I should have known better; the once-crisp chunks had started to collapse inward like melting pink icebergs, and the pale seeds wept from fleshy sockets. My stomach felt hard and distended within 10 minutes.

Naturally, the only remedy for my affliction was sipping Anti-Fart Juice from a horizontal position whilst moaning. I explained this to my roommate, Alicia, and once she stopped laughing, she asked about the contents of my mug. It is on her behalf that I now reveal my magic potion’s super-secret recipe:

ANTI-FART JUICE

Ingredients:

-1 tablespoon of chopped ginger (fresh is preferable to the graying, bought-this-for-stir-fry-weeks-ago-and-completely-forgot-about-it variety)

-1 squirt of lemon juice

-1 squeeze of honey

-Hot water

Instructions:

-Heat some water. Pour it into a mug

-Dump the lemon juice and honey into the mug

-Stir

-Place the ginger inside one of those metal, medieval torture device-looking tea ball thingies.

-Drop the teal ball thingy in the hot water. Seep

-Sip whilst horizontal and moaning

Selfish Sharing

I sense my co-workers consider me generous for sharing my food. If they do, they are mistaken about my motives; I share for purely selfish reasons.

I’m a fairly healthy eater, and I consume a lot of produce. When at work, I typically eat an apple or a pear every afternoon and, typically, I dissect the fruit into bite-sized chunks. Upon arranging the chunks on a plate, I stroll from cubicle to cubicle, tempting my co-workers like Snow White’s witch. Sometimes I even encourage Alicia to snag seconds. Usually she does. My co-workers thank me as I make my rounds. I feel good about myself.

But what Alicia, Pete, Traci and Eliza don’t realize about my handouts is this: They are simply a means of mitigating my own future discomfort. Because as much as I love produce, produce does not reciprocate. Instead, produce ties my intestines into tight coils that build and bulge and bide their time until they can unfurl at only the most inappropriate times – namely, during group exercise classes. All that jumping and bouncing and bending is quite dangerous post-pear, and I’ve learned to limit my produce intake on downward dogging days so as to avoid any unnecessary clenching of buttocks.

The sweaty shirtless guy in last night’s Vinyasa Yoga class must keep all his pear chunks to himself. During my favorite pose, Shavasana, or “Corpse Pose,” he released a mighty wind, a thunderclap loud enough to rouse the dead. He certainly roused me from my meditations, deep ruminating thoughts on subjects such as whether my yoga pants make my butt look big and whether there was enough leftover spaghetti for dinner. My eyelids snapped open. I waited for the ensuing laughter, but nobody – not even the 6-year-old yoga prodigy accompanying her mother – snickered. The room remained silent, an unnatural silence suddenly devoid of the twiggy gray-haired lady’s throaty breathing and the neon tights girl’s coughing. Oh, mortification, Sweaty Shirtless Guy! Staring at the ceiling, I thanked the heavens my own musical fruit remained unplayed.  

I don’t want to be that guy.     

So, I ask you, Alicia: What’ll it be tomorrow? Bosc or Bartlett? Fuji or Gala? You pick. I’ll serve.