My brain tracks the bead of sweat as it travels from the nape of my neck, down my spine, and finds a home in the lower region of my thin cotton tank. The dampness of my tank is almost indistinguishable from the veritable pool I’ve accumulated by the waist of my skirt. I press my sweaty palms against the thin nylon of my skirt and then glance to the left to see if anyone is paying attention. Sus is on my right, so I’m safe there.
To my left is a woman who is the epitome of everything I am not. My guess is that she’s 5’6 or 5’7. Even in the stifling heat and humidity, she is wearing slim fitting dark denim and a tucked in white long sleeve button down blouse. A thick leather camel colored belt adorns her waist and expensive looking flats in nearly the same shade are on her average sized feet. Her hair is slicked back into a bun and she has red lipstick swiped across her mouth.
Her outfit isn’t exactly memorable, but her vibe is, without question. You know, I say to Sus, turning my head in her direction, I’m generally not an envious person.
Sus smiles hesitantly, like she knows that there’s a caveat about to follow. She’s right, as per usual.
In fact, I continue, there’s really only one thing I’ve been jealous of my whole life.
Sus starts to say something, and our words cancel each other out. She laughs, but I fail to do so, because I didn’t catch what she said. A laugh tickles my throat anyway, because hers is contagious, but I bury it in favor of repeating my words.
Women who don’t look sweaty in weather like this, I say.
Sus cocks her head slightly and smiles more broadly.
I know that it’s pretty absurd to feel that way- jealous, but I can’t help it, I say.
I get it, says Sus, I’ve never understood how that works. They must be a sweaty mess underneath it all, but we just can’t see it.
No, I reply, I’ve been close to the non-sweaters, the lucky ones, and they are dry as a bone. Not a shimmer, shine, or drop of moisture in sight.
I can tell, because I know these things, that Sus wants to laud the health of sweating to me, but knows better. Regulation, she might say, and then, go on to explain how sweating is actually our body’s way of cooling off. But she knows that I know this already, and it doesn’t make a smidgen of difference.
I am still a hot, drenched mess and that woman is still effortlessly cool, in every way.
There is no blame to be put on my hormones (perimenopause!) or improper attire (any lighter clothing and I’d be in a bathing suit!) or anything else for that matter. It’s just me and my moist DNA. There are sweaters and non-sweaters, and most people fit into one camp or the other, with few exceptions.
In a good number of ways, I’ve come to terms with this issue over the years. I’ve learned the fabrics to avoid (most silks) and colors that don’t work (middle of the road) and overall triggers (moving from a hot environment to a cold one). I make sure my hair is off my neck. Walking on the shady side of the street is pretty crucial, and I try to avoid moisturizers or serums that don’t absorb properly.
And is this entire post about how I sweat?
No. It’s really about the ways in which we denigrate ourselves for the things that are so inherently human. The way we disparage ourselves for just being. There are things that are so brutally human, and we’ve decided that these are things that should bring about embarrassment and shame. We’ve made this determination that repulsion is on the menu when our bodies do the things they are conditioned to do as well-oiled machines.
In the same way we’ve created beauty and behavioral standards, we’ve made it very clear that there are some parts of us that are disgusting. And if can control them through work or medication or some other assistance, that’s just brilliant. And if we can’t- sigh.
It’s just such a bummer.
The reason that I envy that woman who looks unscathed when traipsing around New York City on an unseasonably warm day is mostly because I’ve been conditioned to believe that the state of being sweaty is repulsive. That someone who is sweaty looks unkempt and someone who isn’t is something altogether different. She is elegant and positioned to weather any storm, no pun intended.
Except that none of that is true, not really. The chic, dry woman could be an absolutely train wreck and I could have it all together, save my wild sweat glands. I mean, I don’t, but I could, and it’s much more about my temperament than my temperature.
Anyway, I think I am bringing all of this up to explain that I think one of the reasons we buy so quickly into these standards that are developed for humans, particularly those concocted for women, is because it’s easier than accepting the discomfort that accompanies are humanity. Our wrinkles are signs of aging. Our sweat is a sign of regulation. Our weight gain is the sign of hormonal imbalance or emotional issues or both. Our lack of hygiene is a sign of distress or a lack of resources. These things (and more) remind us of the frailty of humanity, or the challenges that accompany just living and so, we strive to make it go away. We believe, sadly, that if we erase signs of our humanity, we will somehow move ourselves closer to a state of objective perfection. And yet, the greatest irony is that all of the work to move away from this ick just gets us closer to the real ick. Insecurity. Sadness. Jealousy. Grief.
We still age. We still sweat. We still cry. We still bleed and burn and wrinkle and grow smaller and bigger.
So maybe, just maybe, I’ll spend more time being in the moment of beautiful day with my mama, and less time worried about sweating.
Eh?
L.
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