Flash back to 5th grade gym class. The beginning of every class we would have to do specific exercises to warm up the muscles and get the blood pumping. One of these exercises was the classic situp. For this particular exercise, we had to pair up with a partner to hold our feet down while we did situps. The class layout was designed so that every guy was matched with a girl. For me this was not a bad system. I got matched with one of the more popular, better looking girls in the class. I’ve sat up before and not to brag but I was pretty good at it. This was my big shot to impress her with my sick skills.

This would prove to be easier said than done. As she holds my feet down I realize she’s not that far from my nether regions, which for an adolescent boy, this is a big deal. If the excitement gets to me this could be devastating, so I need to focus on my abs and completing as many sit ups as I can. “Just focus on the reps” I thought to myself. The teacher starts shouting the counts. Up! Down! Up! Down! Eventually I lost count of the reps. Could have been 10 or 100, I just knew that we were approaching a dangerously high number of sit ups. Not sure what I did to this gym teacher, but he was obviously not on my side this day.

As the count increases, I begin to struggle more and more. My stomach is burning and my legs are shaking. It also didn’t help that she was doing a terrible job of holding my feet down. Without the proper support my feet were basically flailing all over the place. At this point I no longer cared about looking good, I was just focused on completing a situp without kicking her in the face. After this pitiful performance, there’s no way she’d think I was even remotely attractive. She’ll spread the word that I’m a little weakling to all the other girls and I’ll spend the rest of my life alone. My life is officially over. It couldn’t possibly get any worse…. Until it did.

We finally reach the last situp. I put everything I have to complete it without shaking and flailing my feet. I clench those ab muscles and pull my self up, but as I complete the rep, a gust of air leaves my body. I believe the biological term is a “fart”. It wasn’t a loud fart that everyone could hear it, but when your face is one foot away, you can definitely hear it and possibly feel it. I freeze. I stare at her wide eyed in complete shock to see if she says anything praying she didn’t notice.

But then she looks back with a puzzled look. “Eww did you just fart?”

“Me? No.”

“Eww I just heard you fart.”

“What? No I didn’t fart.”

“Eww yeah you did.” She’s being kinda loud now. Time to lawyer up.

“I didn’t fart. I don’t even smell anything?” Boom, classic defense. She can’t say she smells it now because in 5th grade logic, by law that means she dealt it.

She’s a little more quiet now, but she giggles one more “you farted”.

Without proof or any real witnesses, I was spared some serious public ridicule. Don’t get me wrong, I was absolutely mortified and I have a feeling that the psychological damage I got from this event is going to be permanent. My saving grace here is that she was being kind of a bitch about it so I can say it was justified. Luckily for me she would continue to be one of the hottest and most popular girls in school all the way through high school, and while most people wanted to hook up with her, I did one better. I farted in her face.

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Silent Riot