Sweat-hoggie Pits

Is it really fair that I’m a sweat hog? Really? Because I don’t think it is.

Now I love the “sweathogs” from “Welcome Back Kotta” (Kotter), but do I have to be one? I love them so much I named my 1982 big blue Suburban I drove to high school, “Vinny” – affectionately, after Vinny Barberino.

But, it’s bad. I’m a sweater. And not the nice, soft, fuzzy kind. No. I’m the, “Is that a giant sweat ring on her shirt” kind.

I started wearing two shirts in junior high; ‘just in case I sweated through one.’ Yeah, guess what, smarty? Yep. Two shirts only make you hotter, equaling, more sweat.

At stake dances, the dessert of my youth, my hands would sweat like a faucet. Each Saturday night, as I’d wait and wait and wait for that cute (and certainly tall) boy to ask me to dance – I’d spend most of the time inconspicuously wiping my hands. And FOR SURE before the last dance, I could be found in the women’s restroom soaking my hands under ice cold falls of water. AND THEN I’d hold them above my head for as long as I could, so as to lose blood and make them cold. (it’s a pretty picture, huh?)

Arms up?! Sweat rings!! Ahhh. Friendly tip: Raise arms in the stall, this way no one has to see you AND your armpits aren’t exposed.

Did all this work? No. Of course not. But boys still asked me to dance; at least most of the time. And generally, not the cute ones I was swooning over at the time. But, I still had a great time. Sweat and all.

Oh, don’t stop there my trusty friends. We haven’t even talked about the feet. Oh, no we haven’t.

Due to the very warm summers of ‘the bubble’, I have broken my own rule. The poor people in the shadow of these mountains. My feet SWEAT. During my years in the Northwest, I didn’t wear sandals. (this was the rule) My feet were so sweaty, they’d slip out all the time. I’d have sweaty dirt rings on my feet. Yeah, it’s classy. (hence, the rule) I think, that I think that my socks soak up the sweat, so better to be sock footed than bare. (?) Weir-dough!

Luckily! And I say that gingerly, luckily, I’m not particularly stinky. (crossin' my fingers here) I smell like a lot of deodorant, hand lotion and normal foot odor. (While there may be readers out there that think otherwise; I’d appreciate it if you let me live in my fairly odor free dream. It’s bad enough as it is.)

So, how does a girl live with her elbows plastered to the side of her body? How does she eat food with her arms limited to an ‘elbow to wrist’ length only? How do I hang onto the monkey bars when I am crossing them? How do I put my feet up and enjoy without being embarassed? Easy. I don’t.

I gave up. I’ve been to doctors, tried eating different foods, lost weight. Most of my ‘formal’ dresses were adorned with the ever classy, “arm pit guards.” (Seriously, these are layers of paper, think the consistency of the dental napkin, they’re round and sticky on one side, and they’re awful. It's like wearing a baseball sized sticker under your armpit all night. Newsflash to all you mothers thinking of making your daughters wear these: If you think sweaty arm pits are bad – try crunchy rustling while making ANY movement at all. It’s bad.) At any rate, anything you can think of – I’ve tried. The solution, you ask?

There is none.

Sorry.

Just don’t look. If you see sweaty arm pits on me; ‘sorry.’ That’s just me. Shake my hand and it’s slimy? Yep, it’s just me, “great to see you again!” my sweaty palms say. And my feet? All my shoes look super gross thanks to lots of wet feet. Yep. Here we are, all two, hot and sweaty size tens. How do we look?

I’ve never been one to hide the real me. So, here is the ‘real me.’
Aren’t I attractive?

Wait ‘til I tell you about my warts…

*oh yeah - none of the above pictures are mine. I don't take any credit for them, and if you want to know their legal orgins, google for sweathogs, Vinny Barberino, sweat, feet and hands. Now, nobody sue me. Okay?