Fact: my husband has a lush physique. His body is lean and muscular with smooth skin the colour of caramel. Twenty-something hotties, middle aged flight attendants and even Bridge playing Nanas can’t help but sneak an amorous peak at my guy’s gorgeousness. He’s certain to get the stamp of approval from men and women, alike.

He’s fit and he’s manscaped—an Adonis of the DILFs, so to speak. But, sadly, my Don Juan Demarco has a trumpet for an asshole. And man, that thing loves to crank out tunes.

Yes, my hubby specializes in anal acoustics. He farts sporadically throughout the day (we both work from home) and he performs a full-on orchestra between 9:00 p.m. and 10:00 p.m. weeknights.

If you were to peer into our living room window, like a strange stalker in the night, you’d see, as with most couples, a predictable set-up. On the couch you’ll find me, cocooned, all cozy-like in my favorite blanket, eating frozen yogurt out of the tub. House of Cards or Orange is the New Black might be on the TV. But then, if you turn your creeping eyes to the floor, you’ll find my husband, topless on a yoga mat implementing his nighttime exercises. Not quite as typical, huh?

The fact is, while I’m chilling on the couch, eating froyo in my kimono, my hubby is farting his way to a six pack. I’m not quite sure what’s causing him to gaseously hot box the living room each night. It’s probably the protein powder he puts in his smoothies or the dried apricots that he munches on daily or maybe it’s the repetition of forceful crunches and Pilates-inspired poses. It’s likely the combination of it all and, I fear, I’m slowly being gassed to death.

Sit up.

Vvvvvurrrrt

Leg extension.

Ppppfffffft

Push up.

RRRrrrrrrrrrrrp

This is our life. Unless, of course, my hubby is away for work. Then the main difference can be found in the quality of my air supply and the fact that nobody is performing in PU (the yoga mat version of Cirque de Soleil).

I’ve got a lot of respect for my hubby’s vigilance with his weeknight routine. That’s why he’s so fit, after all. But, I can’t un-know the truth about what happens, behind closed curtains, in the homes of hot men around the globe. And I thought you should know it too. Because, behind every husband, with a sweet set of abs, is a wife gagging in a putrid cloud of his farts.

This post originally appeared on Mamalode.com.
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photoShannon Day is wife to one gorgeous, yet slightly overbearing, Brit and mom to 3 little ladies. Once a teacher, now a story maker and occasional cocktail shaker, she shares her tales, martini recipes and her shenanigans over at Martinis & Motherhood.  Shannon is a regular contributor for BLUNTmoms and is co-founder of Tipsy Squirrel Press. You can also find her on Facebook,and Twitter.

Author

When Kristen Mae isn’t running absurdly long distances, washing poop out of her dog’s butt-hair, or taming her two booger-machines, she’s tossing her expensive master’s of music performance degree out the window by feverishly attacking her “writing career.” Kristen is the voice of Abandoning Pretense, where she tells the whole, uncensored truth about marriage, parenthood, and life. In addition to her blog, Mae shares hilarious and heart-warming tidbits of her life on her Facebook page, Google+, Twitter and Pinterest, and is also a regular contributor at ScaryMommy.com, Bluntmoms.com, Mamapedia.com and Mamalode.com.

2 Comments

  1. The shadowy underbelly (perhaps more accurately: undercroft) of your husband’s hotness is funny as hell for those of us who don’t have to smell it.

    I’m considering coming over there and helping you move the tv to a realllly small room, like the shower, where there’s not room for him while he does his stretches. “Sorry, honey!”

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