Taste. Or Lack Thereof

“Good morning, Lydia! Hey, I had a dream last night that you were yelling at me in the middle of the night because you wanted me to teach you how to burp.”
“Well actually, John, I was.”
“Really? You weirdo.”

Yes, true conversation. And yes, true confession: I never learned how to burp intentionally. To me burping on purpose was vulgar, and something only losers would do. Just call me too much of a lady; I never, ever had the urge to stoop so low and learn. Never until last night, that is, when I woke up in the middle of the night feeling as though I had eaten half a cup of yeast, a liter of soda and pop rocks. In other words, I had really bad gas and egg burps. Which is the only reason I wanted to learn to burp, because it seemed better than the other alternative.
However, I am proud to report that I never actually learned, despite having awakened and asked both John, a renowned expert, and Rachel, his only competition, during that long, long night. Fine, call me incapable, but belching will never be a part of my repertoire. (Although unflinchingly writing gross and/or time wasting blog write-ups will. At least I know my dad and uncles, a couple gross guy friends and Peter, for whom the above topic is an important daily chore, will appreciate it. My sincere apologies to the rest of you decent, genteel folk.)