Hit and run

Just for fun, I’m going to veer from the usual and start this post off with something a little bit different: a poll. Ready? OK, here goes:

Have you ever witnessed a motor vehicle accident?

Note: When I first wrote this, I was under the assumption that I could embed an actual poll question— with results computation and everything—into the body of this post. However, I am apparently too technologically inept to crack the code (pun intended) on Internet polls, which I find slightly worrisome considering that I work in digital media. Hopefully I did not list “Internet poll administration” as a skill on my resume. I must make a note to confirm that. Anyway, I’m too committed to this intro to revise it now, so let’s just think of this as a rhetorical poll. But feel free to write down your answer or say it out loud or even leave it as a comment.

My follow-up question to that inquiry would be: Have you ever witnessed a motor vehicle accident 4.8 miles into a 5-mile run in 100-degree heat? What’s that? You haven’t? I didn’t think so. I win. (Yes, in my ultra-competitive world, you can win at polls.)

I had been running for approximately 35 minutes when it happened. As you might imagine, I was extremely sweaty and even more extremely thirsty. I only had another two blocks to go when I approached the last intersection before my apartment. The light was green and the walk sign was illuminated, so I picked up the pace to make sure I got through the crosswalk before the light changed. (Remember, I was sweaty, thirsty, and definitely in no mood to stop for an entire light cycle.)

Just as I was about to step into the street, I noticed that there was a vehicle in the left turn lane. It was creeping into the oncoming lane of traffic, and I wasn’t entirely certain that the driver saw me. So, despite being in a fire-ass hurry to get across the street—and I say that in a completely non-figurative sense, because it was 100 degrees out and my ass was quite literally on fire—I jolted to a stop to let the driver execute her turn.

Just as I came to a halt, she saw me and slammed on her brakes—at which point a car in the oncoming lane zoomed through the light and smacked right into her driver’s side headlight, smashing it to smithereens and sending a confetti of automotive shrapnel flying through the air. I drew my sweat-covered hands to my sweat-covered face and gasped.

Here is what went through my head in the first few seconds after the wreck:

1. Holy shit!
2. I hope no one is hurt.
3. What do I do?

At that point, another witness to the accident pulled up to the sidewalk next to me and got out of his car.

“Did you see it too?” he asked.

I nodded, still in shock. He then sprung into action, checking to make sure both drivers were OK and offering to help in any way he could. I just stood there like a dumb-dumb.

In my defense, I was incredibly dehydrated and a little light-headed. I noticed goosebumps forming on my arms and legs—a sure sign of heat stress. Still, despite clearly being in the early stages of heat exhaustion, I knew I had to stick around to give a statement because I’m a good citizen and it was the right thing to do. On a more selfish note, I knew this story was going to make for a super entertaining blog post.

By the time we had established that no one was injured, my dizziness had subsided and I started to get my wits about me. My mind raced with thoughts, questions, and concerns—many of them slightly inappropriate in the context of the situation at hand. Here are the highlights:

1. Are those firemen ever going to offer me some water? (They did not.)
2. Oh my god, I ran through two giant gnat swarms and I probably have insect carcasses plastered all over my disgusting, sweaty face.
3. What if I have to give a statement to the police? What if they send a really good-looking cop and he’s totally grossed out by my disgusting dead-bug face? What if I smell? (At this point, I performed a discreet armpit check and discovered that I only smelled a little.)

The cop who did show up was not only inexcusably late to the scene (it took him about 40 minutes to get there), but also inexcusably dickish. As he took the left-turner’s statement, she indicated that she couldn’t recall all of the details and that he should probably ask me about it because I had the whole thing recorded in my memory in perfect slow motion. We’re talking iPhone 5s-quality.

So, I launched into a very animated, incredibly accurate account of what had occurred, and this cop—who, by the way, looked like the goddamn missing link in human evolution—put up his hand and cut me off mid-sentence with, “We’ll get to you. Let her finish talking.”

I wish with all my heart that I had come up with a clever retort right on the spot—something like, “OK, right after I let you finish evolving, Officer Cro-Magnon!”—but instead, I simply raised my insect-dotted eyebrows and shot him the most disapproving glare I could muster. I cannot be sure if he saw said glare; it is possible that his field of vision was obscured by his frighteningly prominent brow line.

After talking to both drivers, he retired to his air-conditioned cruiser to spend 20 additional minutes entering the information into his computer. We continued to stand in the hot sun. He did not seem the least bit concerned about this.

Then, much to our relief, an angelic Mexican woman who lived in the apartment complex immediately adjacent to the scene of the accident yelled down to us from her balcony: “Would you like some water?”

“Yes! Please! Por favor!” we shouted from below.

She proceeded to drop several ice-cold bottles of water into our hands, thus restoring my faith in humanity.

Around this time, the driver of the other vehicle struck up a friendly conversation with me. As we talked, I took stock of his nice teeth and his toned, muscular physique. He was very attractive and very personable. When he asked me for my phone number “for insurance purposes,” I briefly fantasized that he actually intended to use it “for cocktail invitation purposes.” Later, after returning home and discovering the true gravity of my dead bug situation, it became indubitably clear that he would do nothing more with my digits than pass them along to his Allstate agent.

When Deputy D-bag finally emerged from his climate-controlled environment, he half-heartedly asked for my “version of events.” Was this guy serious? What I was about to describe was not my “version” of what happened—it was what fucking happened! What in Tim Tebow's name would I gain from distorting the truth? Furthermore, I had just spent the last hour of my life standing on a street corner in a sweaty sports bra while making small talk with total strangers and completely sabotaging my weeks-long effort to even out my tan lines in preparation for an upcoming wedding.

I gritted my teeth and somehow managed to keep my composure. I gave him a detailed play-by-play, speaking slowly and using small words so as not to confuse him. And then, thankfully, I was dismissed to return home—which meant recruiting my stiff, electrolyte-depleted muscles to plow through another quarter-mile.

Still, despite the inconvenience, I took pride in my good citizenry. Don’t worry, I won’t let my heroic exploits go to my head—although I might wear a cape for a couple of days.

The Sweactrum

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”