The honeymoon phase: the period of time in a relationship, typically from gestation to the one year mark, where you act as if you’re a perfect, non-flatulating, eating six small meals a day kind of person.
The reality is that you are perfect (*flips hair*), but you definitely flatulate (you are human, this is normal) and you definitely eat six meals a day. But they are not small. They are 8oz ribeye steaks with more sides than Popeye’s can tack onto their $5 box deals.
What can I say? I have an appetite.
During the honeymoon phase of a relationship is when you get to be the best version of you. Or the cleaned up version, rather. You shower more than thrice weekly (this includes washing your hair at least every other day, which as a long-maned female is taxing, not only on the arms and shoulders from holding a blow dryer, but on the time you dedicate to binging The Mindy Project), you wake up smelling as if you’d just eaten a bunch of those soft peppermints or a sprig or two of an organic herb you grew on your windowsill if you’re one of those people, and you’re always up for action films. And pretending like you’re interested in the outcome of the climax. As a matter of fact, you get so good at the pretending part of this whole honeymoon phase that you could give Meg Ryan a run for her Big O money in When Harry Met Sally.
Is it weird that this video always makes me want a sandwich?
The fact of the matter is that we pretend a lot. We pretend so much that we often forget who we are to our core, which for me is a semi-grungy gal who enjoys makeup-free Sundays and a pint of ice cream in her freezer AT ALL TIMES. Do you hear me? AT ALL TIMES. Because you never know when tragedy will strike, from early PMS symptoms or from the realization that your Copa America bracket LITERALLY MEANS NOTHING ANYMORE.
So why do we do this, you ask?
Because, at our core, we are repulsive human beings and would have zero friends/love prospects if we let our true selves shine?
But we do this because we’re afraid to embrace who we truly are for fear of not being accepted.
True story: I am typing this whilst sitting on the porcelain throne. I mean why not. It’s comfortable in here. An unknown fact about me is that I prefer smaller spaces. Given the case someone breaks in, I’ll be able to see them at all times. This is how I know I’d be just fine living in a small studio apartment in New York or perhaps a jail cell for a cool crime I’ll probably commit in the future. I’m thinking something Martha Stewart-esque but with more nudity.
We are so wrapped up in projecting perfection to the outside world that we will go to great lengths to make ourselves uncomfortable in the process. Do you really think that those Instagram people who only post pictures of their tiny meals of fruit are truly that happy? Unless they are on some serious supplements for obvious nutrients they are not receiving from their monomeal of cantaloupe, they aren’t. Fact: carbohydrates make you smile. Smiling releases endorphins. Endorphins make you happy.
I think we fail to realize that no one really cares about other people as much as we think. This is why I roll up into Walgreens looking like the pigeon lady from Home Alone. 1. Because no one cares. 2. Because I saw the same outfit being sold on Urban Outfitters and thought that maybe, just maybe, the style was coming back and I wanted to be one of the first people to debut it because I like attention and am A Creative (this is the official name us creative people give ourselves. It helps with self-esteem and also tax breaks somewhere down the line, I am sure).
If any of you have been in a relationship with the same person for over a year, you can vouch for what I am about to say, especially if you’ve spent a considerable amount of time with your significant other during a road trip, a weekend getaway, or living together.
There is nothing more satisfying than farting in front of your boyfriend/girlfriend for the first time and not having them immediately run away from you screaming.
Did you read that?
Did you agree?
Some of you are probably thinking, “Kaitlyn, how crude!” Others, who I will dub as the People With Whom I’d Spend My Free Time agree and are nodding their heads and saying “YEP.”
Because it’s true.
How nerve-racking is that first one though? Oh my gosh, it’s so terrifying. It is one of the most vulnerable states you can be in as a human person. First, there is a sound. Second, there is potential odor that no homegrown organic windowsill herb can mask. But you can’t keep it in, because it is literally poison. Did you guys know that? Did you know that with every (insert other euphemism for fart here) you keep in, you are poisoning your GI tract? Now you know.
Now you know that we are so obsessed with keeping the image of perfection associated with us that we are willingly poisoning ourselves on the inside.
Shit just got real here, didn’t it?
With every false “Hey girl! We should get coffee soon!” text we send…
With every filtered, edited post-workout selfie we put on social media…
And with every normal human function we deny ourselves of, we are being poisoned.
And it sucks.
But we do it anyway, because we want to be perfect.
We want to have it all together.
We want the world to think we’re superhuman and interesting and clean-eating, 7 1/2-minute mile running, my-nails-are-always-manicured queens.
- I am a superhero, because I live with three dudes (two of which are of the fur children variety) and haven’t jumped off of this ten story balcony. Yet.
- Clean eating all of the time is SO EFFING BORING. Do I love me a good blackberry? You bet. But you know what else I also love? Zebra Cakes. THERE. I SAID IT. I LOVE ZEBRA CAKES.
- I have a run a 7 1/2 minute mile, but that’s only because I was listening to Kanye’s “Black Skinhead,” and I was feeling incredibly angsty. Afterwards, I wanted to actually die.
I spent a lot of time caring about what others thought of me to the near point of not even having an opinion on what I thought of me.
And it isn’t worth it.
If we are constantly circulating in the honeymoon stage of life, then how are we supposed to get to the meat of it all? The 8oz ribeye that I wish I ate six times a day?
We won’t. We won’t get to it. And that’s a shame, because the meat (or tofu, again, if you’re one of those people) is the most hearty part of the meal. The part that satisfies you. That part that makes you say, “Mmm!” No leaf of lettuce will do that. I don’t care who you are or what you say.
So stop wasting time projecting this false image of perfection, because we all know you’re not. We know you have bad days where you don’t want to put on jeans because they’re constricting, and you don’t want to put on makeup because the humidity in the air makes your face itchy and you scratch off your $40 Bare Minerals. We know. It’s okay.
It’s also okay to experience a rumble in your stomach if you frequent Chipotle. Which, I mean, don’t because e-coli. But it’s okay if you’re not immune to beans breaking down in your intestinal tract and releasing gases that are uncomfortable and awkward and loud.
It’s. Okay. To. Fart.
I actually am begging you to.
Side note: If you haven’t noticed, this has become a metaphor. Please don’t actually fart around me unless you’re a) family b) close friends or c) an infant that just really doesn’t know public etiquette.
Because the quicker you fart, the quicker you get to be comfortable, and the more comfortable you feel, the better life becomes.
So what have we learned?
In a world full of salads, be an 8oz ribeye.
And in a world full of self-induced poison, be a fart.
Always be a fart.