I don't know what it is about my body
chemistry but I am a HOT person.
And besides being
smokin' hot and insanely good looking I am absurdly sweaty and produce just as much sweat and huffing and puffing as an obese person. With asthma. And a club foot. Who is 90.
I remember the day it all began. It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore year in college and I went to my sorority's annual convention. I was in palm springs wearing a robe made of wool and upon removal of the robe I was greeted by shocked gasps from my peers as I had two very large wet crescent moons cradling my ass.
What a good look that was. Wet moons... beneath the ass... while wearing red
capris. An even better look was created when I tied a
cardigan around my
waist to hide the solar system that was forming there. The only thing missing from the
picture was a fanny pack and a button with my
nonexistent son's baseball team picture on it.
So here I am - older, wiser and just as sweaty. And trust me - I have tried everything.
First, when I was in college my
dermatologist gave me a topical solution that I could put on at night. Sure, it burned. Sure, it itched. But it worked! Those pits were dry!
I used it for a while but burning pits every night literally is THE PITS so I had to lay off that after a while.
The next year I took this burning solution a step
further when I learned that I could put it on my hands and feet. It 100% did not feel awesome but it sure worked. It appeared to be somewhat of a resolution in the battle between Ashley and her own body chemistry... until....
Until I became the
recruitment chair of my sorority and was faced with the fact that over the course of three days I would shake the hands of 1,200 potential new members. So what does any sweaty mess of a co-ed do? She puts that burning solution ON. She even wraps her hands in saran wrap because her (seemingly) astute doctor told her that is what she should do for maximum
absorbency.
And how did her body respond for being treated like a left over snack?
It swelled up. My hands looked like baseball
mits. Well, first they dried up and looked like the feet of a grandpa. Then they swelled. My fingers were enormous - as if I would shake them and sweat would slosh around inside like a
waterbed. Nothing said "come inside and be my sister!" like rough, round,
sloshy man hands. Or the haircut that barely covered my ears. Yeah. It was a tough time for us all.
In the following years I began to establish my own tricks of the trade. Namely, DON'T WEAR ANYTHING BUT BLACK AND WHITE IN THE SUMMER.
Safety first, you know. When I made the move to New York however, my mother then gave me a present.
I remember summing them up as "pit pads." Please see above. But, I believe they were actually called "shields." Whatever the case, she bought a pack of what seemed like 100 from a late night infomercial and sent them to me. Notably, the packs featured an Indian woman in a sari on the front. I looked at her, with her hands turned up and her nose piercing glowing brightly and saw myself in her. Or at least recognized that no lady on this fine earth wants to perspire, especially when wearing silk. It's really a bitch to dry clean.
So one day as I am getting ready for work I reach for the pit pads. In they go! They have stickies on the back to stay in place and call them whatever you want... I could have just bought an economy box of
kotex light days from
Costco. Which honestly is probably what the Indian lady in her sari did.
So I put on my collared shirt and my
cardigan over my shoulders (As any sweater knows, this is your armour. If you begin to pit out your shirt from your elbow to below your bra, you need a
cardigan to cover up, and cover up quick). And off I went to the subway...
Walking to the subway I kept checking
le pits. And elated, I realized... I WAS DRY. Well
I specifically was not dry. That pit pad was wet like a sponge probably realizing that this was no "light day." But, more importantly, the shirt was dry. I remember thinking that this must be what heaven feels like and confidently, I pulled my sweater from my shoulders (the arms of the
cardigan conveniently were covering my armpits to hide any initial sweating) and put it in my purse.
When I get to work I immediately went into the bathroom. Dabbing my face dry (you don't think any part of my body is spared from sweating profusely, do you?) I realize that
DAMN IT!! I AM SWEATING... but only from the right armpit. AND THEN... and then I find that there is no pit pad in my right armpit.
I HAVE A MISSING PIT PAD.
Cue total terror. A slew of questions began to go through my mind....
Where is it?
Did it fall out when I was walking?
Did it fall out on the subway?
Is it stuck to
someones shoe?
Is it laying in my office lobby?
When I exit the bathroom are my co-workers going to be standing there with my pit pad pointing and laughing like that horrific shower scene in Carrie?!?!?!?
Oh My God. Oh My God.
WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PIT PAD? FUCK!
Turning around, looking at the floor of the bathroom, praying that it made its way into the ladies.... I see something.
I see... a shape... an outline... on my back.
And then I realize that my pit pad has taken a
lil' trip. A
lil' vacation, if you will. It must have felt cramped and hot all scrunched in my armpit and is now
much more comfortable in the middle of my back where everyone behind me on the street, on the subway and in the office elevator must have thought WHAT IN GODS NAME IS A MAXI PAD DOING IN THIS GIRL'S SHIRT.
Not knowing if I should be more horrified or
relieved, I remove both pit pads and put on my security blanket
cardigan.
And since that moment, I have never gone back to "the pads" because frankly, it just isn't worth the risk.
Sometimes it is better for your peace of mind to just put on the shirt and the
cardigan and tough out that 90 degree weather with sweat on your brow and a Bounty "the quicker picker upper" paper towel in your hand to wipe your face with.
And a final trick of the trade - Bounty paper towels really are the best. Other brands shed a bit when they get wet and let me tell you... a lady's face should not, under any circumstances, be covered with bits of fuzzy paper towel. Because what it does is make you look like you shave your face and that you have violently attacked your own mug with a razor blade.
And it is at this time I would like to thank the receptionist at my very first job interview who kindly encouraged me to visit the restroom
pre-meeting. It was at that moment I learned about fuzzy
paper towels and that "violent razor blade face" does NOT match one's new
Tahari suit.
Dating in New York City is questionable at best.
