Hot, hot, hot …

Hot, hot, hot …

Unfortunately, I’m not talking about myself … as in what the young men would consider HOT!  I am, however, a living, breathing ball of sweat during this record-breaking heatwave in November.  I love summer.  I love the beach; not the sand so much, as it sends me into sensory overload with all those little grains needling me.  But I love lying in the sun and then having a refreshing dip when you’ve roasted yourself for a while.  You can almost feel the sizzle.   Aaahh … BLISS!  It’s one of the reasons I suggested we move closer to the coast.

What I do NOT like about summer is sweating.  It’s the main reason I don’t go to the gym.  I’m just not a fan of the salty water that gathers on the skin, running in rivulets down your face, pooling in your eyes, around your mouth before it drips, unceremoniously off your chin.  And don’t get me started about sweaty armpits!  Like most women, I remove the hair there regularly.  More regularly in summer, less so in winter when no one but P-i-C gets to see the gorilla fashion I sport on my body!  I HATE seeing droplets of sweat, hanging like baubles on a Christmas tree, in the hairy armpits of the menfolk of our society.  And they seem to want to share this look because they sit back, arms up and folded behind their heads, for all the world to see.  It’s not just the look that’s offensive. It’s the odour as well.  Sweat smells.  It’s the body’s way of getting rid of toxins.  You can’t cover it up with deodorant.  It just doesn’t work and only makes the situation worse.  It’s like mixing two opposing tastes in your mouth. 

Most of the male deodorants nowadays are almost toxic themselves; they’re so strong and overbearingly powerful.  Almost a deterrent if you’re a Singleton on a date!  Mind you, some of the female ‘body sprays’ can be that way too.  On a hot summer’s day, riding public transport can be fraught with danger, especially at peak hour on the afternoon run home.  So many people, so many different deodorants, perfumes and aftershaves that the passengers have sprayed liberally, to mask the body’s reaction to the rising temperature.  It’s a gas chamber containing an obnoxious mixture of sweat, and the heady tones of musk, sandalwood, citrus blends …..  Couple that with people squashed against each other, like a bunch of grapes, with the windows and doors closed and the air conditioning on recycle … need I say more?

We sweat in other places too.  I’m a woman who was at the front of the line when breasts were handed out.  I think I’m blessed with enough for two women, and usually I am happy with that.  I fill out tops and dresses nicely, and a fitted jumper looks great.  The downside is having them in summer.  I really can’t go braless in public now, and the jury’s still out as to whether or not I ever could.  They’re at the state where they are Sweet Charity  … and swing low when they’re not reined in!  The problem is with the type of bra I now need.  It can only be described as the ‘over the shoulder, boulder-holder’.  It requires a wire insert, shoulder straps an inch thick, and enough four-inch elastic material from front to back, to make waistbands for half a dozen kid’s tutus!  It’s about as comfortable as a strait jacket!  So, when the temperature rises, the heat builds up in the area under the breasts where the wire and padding is at its thickest.  And where there’s heat, there is sweat.  I can feel it, as well as the trickles running down my cleavage.  It certainly isn’t the sexiest feeling. 

That goes for the wetness at the junction of the legs, too.  It has nothing, and I will repeat, NOTHING, to do with feeling turned on, or the result of an orgasm.  It is plainly and simply sweat caused by the friction of two wobbly thighs rubbing together.  At the end of the day, if you’re wearing a skirt, you have the chaffing of a long-distance runner!  No amount of baby powder with help.  It just tends to form a paste with the sweat and drops down like snow when you walk. I pity the person walking behind!  Thank goodness I’m over having to wear pantyhose to work.  Peeling those off was like peeling away a layer of skin.  And the nylon and sweat mixture makes for a particular pong all of their own.  I’m sure if you could bottle it, it would make an excellent personal safety spray.  Women would be safe, walking alone.  One shower of that stench would have the attacker gasping for fresh air, and swiftly running in the opposite direction.

Should I mention wearing shoes?  I think not.  I’m sure you’re getting the picture, like a video running through your mind.  The images will last a lifetime and, if your imagination is on the right track, you’re already gagging from the smell.

So, next time the barometer is about to blow the mercery from the tube, and the hairs in your nose burn as you breathe, know you’re not alone.  You have, at the minimum, three months of heavy sweating where you know there is absolutely no chance you can wear an outfit a second time before it needs washing! 

Enjoy!  I’m off to live in the pool for the summer.

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