Women don’t fart. They do, however, shoot tiny puffs of glitter that sound like a unicorn’s laugh and smell like a rainbow.

That’s not true. I wish it was true. But it’s not.

What is true is that you can’t really hide anything in a marriage, not for long anyway.

My husband and I were sitting around on a Tuesday evening watching a little television. Fine, a lot of television. Hours worth, in fact. My stomach hurt (this factors into the story arc, but on to that later) and I felt because of this I deserved to be lazy.

So lazy night it was. Snuggled underneath blankets, my head resting on his arm, watching reruns of Modern Family. Pretty romantic, too, if I tried to ignore the fact that my stomach felt like the Americans invading the beach of Normandy on D Day.

So my stomach hurts. And almost as if he knew that tonight was a night to take care of me, my darling husband was the one to get us more popcorn (freshly popped, with melted butter) and white wine and, when requested, a glass of water WITH ice.

And every time he does so – get up and get us something more for our couch marathon – he has to lift up the blanket and get out. And then lift up the blanket again to get out.

Now, we’ve discussed how my stomach hurt earlier. And with that hurt, comes the occasional fart. Or, I guess, on this evening, the frequent fart. But, I figure, we’re covered under the blanket, I’m hiding it pretty well, considering I’m managing to carry on side-television conversation while frequent farting without even pausing.

Three hours and six episodes later, my husband comes back with another glass of water and simply asks me: “Honey, does your stomach hurt or anything?”

So much for tiny puffs of glitter and unicorn laughs, the myth that women don’t fart and my belief that I can hide anything in this marriage.