I Know the Key to True Love, and It is Gross
I’m going to make a bold statement. Some of you will disagree vehemently, I’m sure. Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m surrounded by testosterone – as the only female with three guys at home, and am now immune to certain things.
All I know is that I’ve discovered the secret to knowing if you’re in a strong, lasting relationship.
I wish I could say it’s open and honest communication, which is a key component that shouldn’t be ignored.
I wish my words of wisdom told of trust and respect, other characteristics of any good relationship.
But no, the secret, apparently, is a complete and total lack of modesty. The grosser you are with one another, the better the relationship.
Let me explain…
French kissing with morning breath is just the start.
Asking about bowel movements – even in the most delicate way comes next. There’s no longer a squeamishness about noises or smells. You tell the other to turn on the fan, use the Febreze, and warn a bitch before I walk in there!
Then it happens. You lose all mystery and know each other better than anyone has known you since you were in diapers.
Plucking your chin hairs (where the hell do those things keep coming from??) and waxing your upper lip with an open bathroom door.
Peeing while the other brushes their teeth.
Carrying on a conversation about the much-needed air conditioner repair as the other opens the door to witness you wiping your hoo-ha. (Is it front to back or back to front? I always get that confused.)
Hot-boxing each other in bed. (Farting under the covers, in case you wondered.)
Laughing hysterically about said hot-boxing and other farting incidents.
Using a corner of the mirror to pop a pimple while the other brushes their teeth.
Pulling out the nose hair trimmers and actually using them in front of the other.
Asking the other to look at this thing on your toe, knee, finger, lady bits – does that look weird? Should I get it checked?
One day I looked up and realized not a damn thing was sacred anymore. He knows how I wipe when I’m sitting on the toilet. I can tell the difference between his fart that will clear the room and have me breathing through my mouth from the innocent little toot. The mystery is gone.
If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.
When I was married, some tasks were sacrosanct and shrouded in total privacy. My ex-husband and I pretended we didn’t do certain things and neither of us saw, heard, or smelled plenty of others.
Whatever he did in the bathroom was his business and whatever I did was mine. It was a line neither of us crossed. I attributed this to my early demands that he “leave me the hell alone, can’t you see I’m in the bathroom?!” as a desire for privacy that comes with being an only child.
I may have to concede I was wrong.
Now, years later, I’ve discovered if you share certain “secrets” with your partner – willingly, I mean – you’ve probably found a keeper.
Think about it. If they’ll still have sex with you when you’re at your absolute grossest, it must be love. Or a desperate need for sex. Either way, you’re probably golden.