It’s hotter than Mercury here in NYC, which is a problem is you’re a sweaty person like me.
Most people sweat in this weather: What I do is mutate into a human sprinkler. I seriously look like I’ve been hit with a hose. Like maybe one of those guys who’s always spraying down the sidewalks in front of apartment buildings got me by mistake. (Note: They never do this. There’s clearly a lot of training that must be gone through before one can become a Hose Guy.)
Today, I walked my usual eight blocks to the train, only to discover that I was completely covered in perspiration. I mean, but completely. Usually I’m a tad damp. It looked like I had neglected to dry off at all when I got out of the shower.
It was so bad that I couldn’t even tell myself it wasn’t that bad. This is because people were staring. I learned something today, though: I learned that if you’re a sweaty girl, people will fuck right off out of your way on the train.
I owe this realization to the dried up ol’ sourpuss who was standing next to me on the B train this morning. She had a lot of bright red hair, nine gold necklaces, actual stone-washed jeans, and a face full of puckers that weren’t entirely the fault of the aging process and/or overexposure to the sun and Merit Ultralights.
She stared at me in disgust as I continued to water my little square foot of standing room, so I stared right back at her. After a moment, I began wiping my chest and making horrid sickly little groaning sounds, like maybe the TB was going to take me at last. Finally, she looked away.
Seriously, lady: Would I sweat this much if I could help it? Just because you haven’t had a natural bodily function since 1983, is that any reason to take it out on me?