For some inexplicable reason, a not-so-close acquaintance and I recently discussed the plethora of problems and myriad malfunctions that accompany advancing age. After we’d laughed about a few things that any normal person would consider TMI, Betty said, “Not that you want to know this, but what I really hate is the gas.”

I will pause to make a brief, cautionary statement for the benefit of overly persnickety readers and bodily function deniers. Betty wasn’t talking about bovine emissions or fossil fuels (though some young whippersnappers might argue that “fossil” is an apt description of “people of a certain age.” Not that I’m there yet!). Nope, she was talking about the original gas, the human-produced variety that manifests itself when you least expect it. “There you go,” Betty said, “just walking across the room, and here it comes: bwwptt, bwwptt, bwwptt, bwwptt.”

Being a bit persnickety myself, I directed the conversation away from ourselves and brought up Larry the Cable Guy’s impersonation of his grandmother and how the same problem quite literally followed her with every step she took.

But Betty was on a roll and steered the conversation back toward the up-close and a bit too-personal. “Yeah, when Gary and I started dating after my first husband died, we went dancing a lot. It never failed. We’d get on the dance floor, and here it’d come: bwwptt, bwwptt, bwwptt, bwwptt!”

I was laughing so hard at the image of a middle-aged-plus couple being propelled around the dance floor by the lady’s own internally produced fuel that I almost missed her next words. “And it wasn’t just me. Gary was doing it, too. Good thing the music was loud.”

Just as I was thinking, “Good thing I’m laughing so loud,” she continued. “Yeah, those were the days. We don’t go dancing anymore. I wonder why.”

Why, indeed? I guess we’ll never know. What I do know is that in addition to love’s being blind, its sense of smell must really stink.

And thank God for that!

(In case any of you snoopy noses are trying to figure out who this boot-scootin’, dance-tootin’ couple is, stop trying. I changed the names because in this case the guilty need protecting just as much as the innocent.)