I’ve come to realize that I could never be a realtor because I’m lactose intolerant. You may be thinking (or maybe not) how my intestinal abilities to process dairy could possibly have anything to do with real estate? Well, the simple answer is that lactose has everything to do with everything. Not only do all of the most tantalizing (Tantalizing is one of those words that I would never use in a serious tone. It almost always requires an exaggeration in tone, accent, volume, or literally anything else to make it not sound completely stupid) dishes contain some form of lactose laced dairy deliciousness but it also has the power to control your entire life. 

Let me explain… (As if you could stop me)

I think it’s pretty fair to say that many of us with lactose intolerance don’t take it all that seriously. Like if I am home for example, I will likely indulge in the forbidden delight of a sweet creamy Chobani… and then shit for the three hours following. However, I would never be so bold if I were simply out in the wild for an unknown period of time. Unless I am feeling particularly daring, in which case I might dabble a little with some soft cheese from Cumberland Farms. The reason for this reckless behavior is because on occasion the little enzymes responsible for processing dairy actually decide to do their job (sort of) and instead of instantaneously pooping right there on the front seat of my boyfriend’s Silverado, I simply fart. 

Ok, how does this tie into my unrealized dreams of home resales? Obviously, it’s because of the farting periods. Nobody wants a farting realtor. Not the buyer, not the seller and certainly not the broker. What happens if you misjudge on a Sunday at two in the afternoon and think “Hey, a quick little Blue Bell would be a fine snack before this here open house”? Before long you see the error of your ways. You try to hold it, but it’s an uphill battle and you’re losing. Then it happens. The farting. There is nothing you can do to hide it and they’re going to know it was you and at that point you only have one option. You have to kill them. You have to kill them because you certainly can’t let them leave. They. Will. Tell. Otherwise you’ll be known as the realtor that farts and you might as well hang it up or hang yourself because there is no turning back from that. 

And no, I am not being dramatic (Ok, I’m probably being kind of dramatic) because people take these things seriously. One time I worked for this company and my cubicle was right next to this other cubicle (as they typically are) and in that cubicle was an older lady of perhaps 59 who was a very, very heavy smoker. (Almost comically so if it weren’t for her impending and inevitable cancer. (She’s probably dead now. RIP cubicle lady)) I knew this because she smelled of stale cigarette butts and because she said “I’m a very, very heavy smoker”. Anyway, she had the tendency to forget that we shared a cubicle wall and on very special occasions she would audibly pass gas for my listening pleasure. I know it was a pleasure for her because these expulsions were often followed by subtle but distinct sighs of relief. And that is why I quit.

Ok, that is not why I quit. I actually found it quite hilarious and I quit for reasons unrelated to farts, cigarettes or the confrontations that often resulted in screaming and crying from the surrounding offices. Except that last part is actually why I quit.

And that is why I cannot be a realtor.