Mount St. Helena

When I was younger, I used to ask my boyfriend to go to the bathroom if he had to fart. It is not that I was delicate or olfactory-abused, it was just a custom I was used to. In my family, if we had to fart, it was done elsewhere.
Years later, with three sons, and a husband who still laughs when he reflects about the time spent apart because he had to fart, I have grown used to various gasses erupting around me, but I can't get used to the stealth farts that waft up from rug level when Root Beer is having a nap beside my feet.
If I look down, I'm sure I'll see a decades-old rotting corpse, it smells that bad. Instead, I see an innocent, asleep on the floor, twitching with doggy dreams and the rancid smell of yesterday's meatloaf and other delights from the neighbour's Hefty bag.