Never Let Them See You Sweat

I arrived in New York for BlogHer and it was approximately 173 degrees. I was prepared, however. I had my shorts. I had my t-shirt. I had my short little socks and my short little hair. So, I was undaunted when Lesbian Dad suggested that we walk from the hotel, through Central Park to the Museum of Natural History. With spirits high, we set off on our journey. We walked and we talked and the sun beat down upon us and we walked and we talked and New York is bigger than I thought and the sun was hot and the breeze was like a feverish child's breath and I didn't have water and I started to sweat but we walked and we talked and I sweated some more and we finally arrived at the museum and it was air conditioned and I never wanted to leave but I had to leave. I was supposed to meet Deborah at the hotel in an hour and I knew it would take close to that long for me to get back so I bid Lesbian Dad adieu and headed back out into the heat and walked some more. I tried to distract myself by imagining that I was walking through Central Park on a gorgeous fall day but couldn't give myself over to the illusion completely because my boobs were sloshin' in their cups and my girly bits were so wet that my pants were wet and I was certain strangers were turning away from me, shaking their heads and thinking, "What a shame...and she's so young..." But, chafing be damned, I forged on through winding path after winding path until it suddenly occurred to me that nothing looked familiar. Where was the guy renting the bikes? Where was the big green field with people lazing about? Where was that one path that wound through the trees and had that little sign about the freshly planted grass? WHERE IN THE HELL WAS I? I took a path to the left and told myself that I had seen that little rock before, that the railing looked familiar but it was a dead end. A DEAD END! I didn't want to frighten the locals so I kept my panic to myself and pretended to enjoy the scenery, snapping pictures with my Blackberry and alternating between a fake smile and a look of contemplation. I appeared to be appreciating the beauty when, in reality, I was thinking, "I'LL NEVER FIND MY WAY OUT OF HERE AND I WILL DIE OF HEAT EXHAUSTION AND SOME HAPLESS JOGGER WILL FIND MY SWEAT SOAKED BLOATED BODY WHILE THE THEME SONG TO LAW AND ORDER PLAYS ON!" Yes, I had my phone and yes I had a map but my fear of looking stupid was greater than my fear of death. So, I studied the view and plotted my course. Eventually, I emerged from the park and there were street signs with numbers, numbers that guided me back to the hotel. I felt like the Girl Who Lived. I stumbled into the hotel looking like a contestant in some sort of lesbian Sweat T-Shirt Contest.  Let me just say that there are people who love the smell of their own sweat. Some of these people work in earthy crunchy cafés so that you can't tell whether it's the soup of the day or the server's arm pit that smells like cumin and onions. Some sweat lovers hang out at gyms and claim that their sweat makes them feel alive. I am not one of those people. I hate to sweat. How much do I hate to sweat? I knew you'd ask so I made you a handy chart:

By the time I got to my room, my clothes were stuck to me like a stinky wet suit. The only things that were dry were my socks and my mouth. I took a shower, put on a clean pair of underwear and laid down on the bed. There was only one thing that could cool me down and help me forget the sweat - the mini bar. I broke it open and made myself a gin and tonic. It might have been the best gin and tonic I have ever had which is a good thing because, when I got the bill, I discovered that my little G and T cost $25. It was worth every penny - you haven't lived until you've had a $25 gin and tonic while pantsless in New York.