I’m a sweater.
Not in a cute, flushed cheek, elegant light sheen way – my sweating is aggressive. I have perpetual wet face and summer is my worst slippery, slimy, nightmare. I sweat when I’m nervous, when I’m hot or flustered - I know that’s not uncommon, nor unnatural, but the magnitude, the sheer amount of liquid is. Post run I resemble a drowned rat and the puddle I leave at bikram gets it's own yellow “Slip Hazard” sign.
Let’s just say I’ve googled “Does deodorant work on your forehead?” more than once.
Being a sweaty girl is the pits. You spend time getting ready for your hair and make-up to be ruined immediately; hello greasy gal with panda eyes. And bangs are totally off the table, for 3 out of 4 seasons at least.
When I’m perspiring profusely I just want to cut off all my hair and rub my face with a fist full of paper towel, but I’m usually out and about or at work so I can’t and it kills me. I have to dab delicately to salvage the little make-up remaining, and try to do something creative with some seriously soaked locks. Unlike Jamie Lee Curtis in True Lies – I don’t need the water from a vase to sleek back my hair – it’s all sweat baby. So sexual.
Boys don’t have to deal with any of that. There’s also under-boob sweat and a variety of girl specific, sweat inducing activities which we endure; blow drying, straightening, steaming, ironing (well hopefully that one’s not girl specific).
But the thing I struggle with most is people’s sweat etiquette, or lack thereof. Those people that jump on you straight away, when you’ve just arrived as a hot and sweaty mess - no time to dry off.
This happens to me at work all the time. I get there sweaty AF from my bike ride, and someone launches into a 20 minute convo with uninterrupted, unwavering eye contact (which in itself is unnerving). I stand, struggling to hold conversation as beads of sweat steadily trickle down my dewy cheeks. I feel like I’m in a movie - like a sniper has a laser aimed at my forehead, or I’m trying to crack a safe or hack a computer – my sweat is that pronounced, that clichéd and comical.
Just give me a fucking minute, a second, look away, let me mop up my moustache of sweat and compose myself. By this stage I’m not even focusing on what the person is saying, I’m just trying to work out exactly how fucked I look. And where the closest bathroom, tissue, serviette, or towel is. Also, as friendly as we are, please don’t touch me. Unless you’re into damp back pats, clammy handshakes or wet embraces.
Alas, there is nothing I can do about being a sweaty betty. I’ve learnt; sexy times will always involve a fan or air conditioner, bobby pins and tissues are mandatory bag items, and dark colours will hide those sweat patches much easier than light.
At least summer is almost over…