Sweating is the New Black

Like the forehead of a teenager unwillingly welcomes its puss-filled visitors, I am aggressively using the techniques of The Amazing Kreskin to rid my body of the sweat that pools in my right angles more often than I'd like. 

Back yonder, never, ever an effective sweater, I was the gal on the elliptical machine begging my sweat glands to pitch in and make me look like the lady on the machine next to me - glistening wet, sports bra soaked, forearms shellacked in iridescent sweat beads. Never happened. Even sitting outside on a mean 90- degree day layered in black with an early 80s reflector tucked under my chin on our black-topped apartment building roof - no sweat, just seared soles on my feet. People who could sweat when they were supposed to were heroic and sexy to me - perfect little human-gods running next to me at the gym or tanning near me on the beach. They were everywhere. 

Come to think of it, my family lineage is a long line of non-sweaters. Never have I seen anyone in my nuclear family sweat. My mom is perpetually freezing even in the height of summer, in her apartment building that never turns off its heat. She never perspires and even if she were to, she's so cold all the time, her sweat is probably frozen in a freezer bag stored in her skinny little body unable to will itself into a salty liquid. My sister Jessica is also always cold. She's the shivery type. For them, spending any time in my house during a winter is on par with having ice cubes rammed up their noses - freezing miserable  horrible torture. They never visibly sweat, and I am convinced they were both born without the ability to produce sweat effectively. Scientists everywhere, come find these two lovely ladies and study them. There is money to be made here.

Joe my dad, not only doesn't sweat, he wears long pants all summer long in moist Manhattan and wears light parkas against NY's winter elements. He's also the only human I know who eats his entire dinner at my house without taking his winter coat off, under a heating vent in the kitchen and doesn't sweat. Not a tiny drop.

I used to be in this very elite club of non-perspiring mutants. As of 37, I was thrown out on the grounds that I traveled to the dark side of the sweat gland and now I make a peacocky show of sweating merely by throwing my two legs out of my bed to go to the bathroom in the morning. Sexy for sure. Since when did drinking a cup of coffee while still in a light sleep stage, practically horizontal, induce sweating? I put on deodorant before my first sip and keep a Sham Wow! perched nearby for my sweat gland tsunami. Forget make-up or even foundation. My morning sweat routine would leave me looking like Tammy Faye Baker after a public crying jag, streaky and stained.

Mine is a classic case of "Be careful what you wish for," because here it is and it's miserable. Sweating at the gym after running 15 miles is totally gorgeous. Sweating making breakfast for the kids is disgusting. They no longer see anything odd about my getting them ready for school almost naked with a sweat towel draped around my neck instead of a fabulous bauble from Target, part of my daily uniform. Forget wearing underwear during the morning shuffle. I sweat enough to sustain a small African village during a dry spell. 

My living room, kept obviously cool for comfort

I spent a week in Los Angeles with my sister and her adorable little family; baby Phoebe was just two months. The sun drenches their apartment by 7:00 a.m. and doesn't quit its job until after 7:00 p.m. We should all work that hard. Jess, never hot, despite the microwaving effect of the sun, used no air conditioning and the windows / screen doors were never opened wider than two inches. If I had a pair of balls, I would have sweat them off. 

I slept on an air mattress pressed to the living room screen doors begging the fading dry breeze to cool me down to below my internal 100+ degrees. My situation drew no sympathy from Jess, but she did let me know that, "Something could be wrong with me because it's not normal to be sweaty and hot like I am." No matter that she now uses her air conditioning. No matter that I left Los Angeles more well done than a Peter Luger's filet mignon. No matter that when ice-pop Jess and Popsicle Mom come to my house, I have to turn the heat up to 80 degrees to keep them warm, which also enables me to bake my kids Shrinky-Dink cut outs without having to use my toaster oven. 

There are ways of staying cool, despite my body's singular drive toward the doorway of inappropriate sweat shows. Keeping the house temperature super cool keeps the ice in my soda from melting and my sweat glands dormant temporarily. I have yet to put on a winter coat, a hat, snow boots. I do not wear my hair down too often because it feels like a fur coat around my neck. And while some folk carry mouthwash or Tide Spot eraser, I carry a purse big enough to tote around my Ban Deodorant -- like Amex, never leave home without it. I will never roll my eyes again at a menopausal woman. I will blow in her face. Fan her. Rub ice around the back of her neck. 

My younger-self's dream of the perfect glistening sweat sheen is with in reach. I could be that girl that everyone admires at the gym, sports bra soaked, calves glimmering, forearm veins mapping my hard work through my skin. Except it will never happen because just thinking about the sequence of sweat-triggering motions I'd need to take to get to the gym has sent me to my shower to de-sweat my skin and scalp. God bless my Ban deodorant...