As the old saying goes, you never know what you can do until
you have to—like satisfy your urgent craving for Lucky Charms by using back-of-the-fridge milk that smells vaguely of old flip-flops. Or hold your pee in traffic for 45 minutes because some d-bag got
up that morning and decided he was Ryan Gosling in Drive (and found out the hard way that he is not). Or even abstain from using Facebook Mobile for six whole days because
your little brother exhausted the entire monthly data allotment watching YouTube videos in a non-WiFi zone (which you cannot complain
about for fear of reminding your parents that you’re still on the family phone
plan despite being an employed, fully grown adult).
Anyway, there was a time when I would have sooner purchased
a ticket for Grown Ups 2 than attempted
to run in 100-plus-degree heat. Then I became a Phoenician.
Now, as we approach the dog days of monsoon season—who knew
it rained in the flippin’ desert!?!?!—I have been forced to exercise in what
are surely the hottest, muggiest, stickiest, most ass-slickening conditions in
the entire first-world. Seriously—when I step outside, I feel like I’m stepping
into the butt crack of that naked fat guy in the locker room at LA Fitness.
(To clarify, I have never actually seen this man, but I have heard stories.
Lots of stories.)
In pushing the boundaries of my temperature tolerance, I have
become very in-tune with my sweat glands and the various environmental stimuli
that trigger them. I also have come to appreciate the nuanced stages of
perspiration—collectively, the Sweactrum—which I have detailed below for your
education and entertainment:
The Dainty Dew: This is that elusive glow that seems only to
exist in Lululemon ads, the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, and Beyoncé. For me, it occurs during the 2.7
seconds between turning the door handle and crossing the threshold into the outdoors.
The Glamorous Glisten: This is really just Dainty Dew
intensified, perhaps with the addition of a tiny patch of chest sweat: Nike
ads, Flashdance, and Ke$ha.
The Beaded T-Zone: Eventually—or, if you are me, almost
immediately—those sexy flecks of shimmer will coalesce into discernible sweat
droplets. At first, these adorable beads of moisture will concentrate around
your nose and forehead areas. But like a fictional amoeba-esque alien, they are
bound to expand and wreak havoc on other regions of your face and body.
Basically, you are rural Pennsylvania and your sweat is the Blob. (Because I
just watched a documentary on frivolous lawsuits, I feel compelled to mention
that this metaphorical movie reference is for dramatic purposes only. Please do
not spray your face with a fire extinguisher and then attempt to sue me for it.)
The Crying Forehead: Now those cute little droplets have
morphed into full-on face tears, carving dozens of miniature salt-water rivers
across the length of your facial plane. In entering this stage, you’ll
likely feel a faint sense of camaraderie with Joan Rivers, whose tear ducts are
actually located in her temples. And forget about drying your sweaty mug with bottom
of your shirt—the absorbency factor of that thin layer of fabric simply isn’t
going to cut it. In fact, short of sticking a maxi pad to your forehead in some
sort of deranged ad concept for Always, your sweat flow cannot and will not be
stopped.
The Ink Blot Bra: Sorry, ladies, but even if you have the
most breathable sports bra in the universe, it won’t save you from the
impending doom of boob sweat*. Right around the time your chest starts to look
like a Rorschach test, you’ll be cursing your decision to wear any color but
black.
The Bug Face: If you’re like me, this phase dominates the
majority of your warm-weather runs. You inadvertently bring the gnat species
one step closer to extinction each time you penetrate one of their annoyingly
invisible swarms.
The Bug Neck: This extension of the Bug Face stage occurs as
you continue to produce even more sweat, eventually dislodging the carcasses of
the dead insects on your cheeks and forehead and carrying them to a soggy mass
grave in the saucer-like divot where your neck meets your clavicle.
The Below-the-Belt: Did you really think I was going to get
through the rest of this post without another reference to butt sweat**? Look,
I don’t mean to be crude, but butt sweat is just a fact of life.
The Salty Soak: At this point, you might as well do a
full-body plunge into a pool of pure human perspiration, because you’re totally
drenched in it anyway. On the plus side, since all of your clothes are now
approximately four shades darker, it’s almost like you’re wearing a whole new
outfit!
*a.k.a. “Swoob”
**a.k.a. “Swass”
