“You have a sweating problem, Peter,” one of my friends told me a few weeks ago while recounting a list of my flaws. I could not disagree. While a sweat problem is better than, say, a smack problem or a child-molesting problem, it’s still an issue.
I should clarify. I don’t sweat all day and all night. I’m not what we in the sweating world call a “wet one.” Unlike my friend Zander, whose armpit stains are as ubiquitous as SFS losers, my sweat problem more resembles Mount Vesuvius: I usually lay dormant, but every now and then I erupt and submerge all those who lie in my wake.
For instance, at this year’s senior tent party, it was a little hot. I was wearing what any self-respecting white boy would wear to a boardwalk party?a T-shirt and khaki shorts. Nothing too suffocating. I wasn’t there long, perhaps only half an hour. But as I began to wade through the masses of people and puddles of indoor urine, the beads of sweat trickled down my forehead. They wet my hair, then my shirt. And soon, my lusty locks of hair were soaked as if I had just been swimming.
One person came over to my friend and asked, “What’s wrong with Peter?” When I went home and looked at my pitiful self in the mirror, I knew what was wrong: my ungodly knack for drenching my own clothes with salty, fetid sweat, enough to fill a drinking cup.
And before the thought of guzzling a tumbler full of my sweat crosses your wandering mind, let me add that all of my life’s sweat could probably fill Shamu’s tank at Sea World. Of my perspiration, there are examples galore.
In high school, my puke-green gym suit was perpetually soaked, and it smelled like it, too. It was hard enough to impress girls in high school, so wearing “Eau de Stanky-Ass Redneck” didn’t help the cause.
We weren’t allowed to shower after class, so when gym occurred early in the day, I was left to meander around the hallways sweaty for the rest of the day. I recall one assembly in the auditorium when I could literally see the sweat stains growing like a virus on my shirt. It didn’t help when one of the hotter and more popular girls in our grade walked by and asked with a sneer, “What’s wrong with you?”
Things haven’t changed. Judgmental pricks gawk and wonder when I walk into a class on a moderately warm day and my brow is peppered with beads of sweat that soon grow into waterfalls. I cower; I hide. My moist skin glistens in the bright light of the classroom, and I count the minutes ‘til I can emerge from the room and recover my dryness. I sometimes cry and wet my pants, adding to the moisture.
Perhaps the most troubling part of my affliction is when I can’t escape a wet situation. Like last month, when I went to a fun and exciting lecture on the sociological implications of religious extremism. It was in a small room in ICC which wasn’t especially hot, at least when compared to others. But I began to perspire nonetheless. No one else showed a hint of discomfort, but my hair was soon drenched, even dripping! There were dots of water falling onto my shorts, for no reason whatsoever other than the retardation of my pores. And as the lecturer went into a tangential statement on Foucault, I couldn’t flee! I just wanted to strip naked (holla!), grab a towel and sip on some cold water. But no, I was doomed to wallow in my puddles of bodily fluid until the lecture was over. I was shamed and contemplated ritual self-disembowelment.
My body temperature is apparently out of whack. My roommates like the air conditioner to be at a mild temperature like 70, while I prefer 50. I also sleep with a fan and would open the window in the winter time, too, if I wasn’t concerned with my roommates’ well-being. I’ve also been known to adjust the thermostat in friends’ apartments without their knowing, only to have them wake up in the morning with hypothermia. I, however, remain dry, comfortable and in charge.
The aforementioned Zander?you know, the armpit king?has started taking pills to control his perspiration problem, but I won’t resort to that fancy, newfangled crap. I’m kicking it old school with my body temperature. I adjust thermostats when I can, wear shorts in the cold, and if it comes down to it, I will sit through an embarrassing flood of sweat. It’s rough, I know, but I’ll let you know how it’s going. If you have a similar problem, like millions across this country, I’ll be willing to talk.
Just look for me in Yates. I’m the kid on the basketball court with the headband, high socks, and baby blue short shorts making the unreal behind-the-back passes. I’m also the kid who slips and falls in puddles of his own juices. So yeah, come up and ask me about my problem. And give me a big hug, because I’ll probably need to dry off.
Peter Hamby is a senior in the College and contributing editor of The Georgetown Voice. He thinks cole slaw and sauerkraut are the tops.
