The other day, an attractive lady approached me in front of my favorite coffee shop. I had never seen her before, so the fact that she seemed to be making a beeline toward me was quite surprising. Women simply don’t behave this way in my presence.
She stopped in front of me and said, “How did you get to be so hot?”
“Uh,” I responded, at a loss for words for the first time in my life. “I was just born this way.”
“Seriously,” she said. “Your face is beet red and you are sweating profusely.”
Oh, she meant THAT kind of hot, I thought. She walked away and my life made sense again.
That’s me: the excessive sweater.
I hate the sun. It stands there, the bane of my sweating existence, like some stubborn, heat inducing jerk.
In my younger days, I tried to counteract the negative effects of over sweating. I ordered deodorant from south Asia and other extremely humid climates. Eventually, my body adapted to the unknown and non-FDA approved chemicals, thus rendering them ineffective.
In a desperate attempt to cut off the percolation of perspiration, I ordered my barber to perform an emergency buzz cut, sacrificing my luscious locks for the greater good. That backfired tremendously, as the sweat now fell, unimpeded, into my eyes. When that happens, it really burns.
Tank tops and short shorts only momentarily delay the sweat from finding my pores and escaping. In fact, my dermatologist, who is puzzled himself with my condition, now refers to my pores as “pours.” He laughs at his wit, amusing only himself.
After attempting—and consequently failing—three separate over-sweating clinical trials, I now find myself without hope. All the while, copious amounts of sweat continue to pour out of me like a sprinkler on its highest setting.
Despite taking 400 mg daily of the anti-sweat medication, stank-away, I still sweat profusely. In the summer, it’s a challenge even to leave my air-conditioned home. As summer approaches, I have no choice but to expect the worst.
Sweaters Anonymous was a tad misleading, when—finally taking my doctor’s advice to appear at their meeting—I was confronted by people wearing actual sweaters. They mocked me relentlessly. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure whose responsibility it was to mock the other side, in this case.
As an excessively sweating older adult, I feel that acceptance seems to be the biggest hurdle of the grieving process. Denial worked for a little while, until I cleared the room at my gym after a vigorous workout. Bargaining, Anger, and Depression all took their cruel turns.
When I was firmly entrenched in the anger section of grief, I found myself involved in fisticuffs with a colleague who took perverse pleasure in calling me “Sweaty McSweaterson.” He was 46 years my senior and it wasn’t a fair fight, despite everyone who witnessed it saying things to the contrary.
Now, I’m waiting on acceptance, and sweating in eager anticipation of it.
I also fired my dermatologist. He can find another patient’s pours to amuse himself with.