GROOOOOSSSS

It's just past noon and already today is shaping up to be one of the all-time record holders in terms of yuckiness. Specifically, sweating. Let me share my feelings with you on this topic: I HATE IT. I HATE SWEATING more than just about everything in the world. Yes, more than rosemary, yippee dogs, close talkers, anorexics, fabric stores and fascists. Well maybe not more than fascists, but it's neck and neck.

The dumb thing is it's not really even that effing hot out. It's merely thick and humid and pea soup-ish. I happened to be wearing my spectacles today and kept on having to remove them in order to wipe off the condensation on the lenses. And have I mentioned my OCD when it comes to facial sweating? I rarely if ever leave home without a supply of facial moist towelettes. I am aware that this makes me something of a freak and that for someone who is currently in financial dire straits, it does not follow that I ought to be spending five to seven dollars biweekly on the fancy, sensitive-skin variety of towelette. But whatever, eff you.

On this particular day of days, I was on my way to see Dr. X* for an annual physical and was running late, so I was unable to go through the normal ritual of making sure I had packed at least two towelettes in addition to my various lip balms, sunglasses, reading material, keys, wallet and cetera. WHAT A DAY TO FORGO THE TOWELETTE CHECK! I was dripping, I tell you! What started as a girlish glow, a glisten even, became a full-fledged schvitz bonanza. It was unpleasant.

In case you're worried about my health, Dr. X seems to think all systems are go, except for the fact that I smoke a little -- JUST A LITTLE!! -- and abhor exercise. I freely admitted this to the doc, because there's really no point in lying to him, even though I want him to love me forever. (See asterisk.) This admonition regarding cigz and exercise could very well have categorized every single doctor's visit since I was twelve, being that I have historically abhorred exercise (even when I was going through my adolescent quasi-ano phase) and have being puffing the fags since '91. I made sure to tell the doc that I DO do all my own walking, which I thought ought to count for something. I mentioned my recent sleep trouble, which hasn't been all that troublesome what with my blessed Ambien by my side, and he retorted with that same "exercise would help that" line. Pah, I said. Also, I don't like sweating. Really. Truly. Don't.

Are you sensing a theme here?

By the time I had trekked up to Union Square, having by then consumed two large coffees -- the equivalent of roughly six espresso shots (more on this later) -- I was actually seeing little speckles of sweat form on my chest like some lady with menopause or a fat guy with high blood pressure. No. NO. MOIST TOWELETTES WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I NEED YOU?? If I'd been in a really OCD mood, I'd have stopped at the nearest Wal-Greens to purchase my Oil of Olay babies, but I was trying extra hard to be abstemious and plus I was on a mission: to visit Barnes and Noble (or Narns and Bobble as I like to call it -- aren't I silly?? But seriously it sounds way better that way) to purchase just about every magazine ever published. For research. RESEARCH I TELL YOU!

Ugh. I was so sweaty that even in the oppressive air conditioning of B&N I couldn't regain my cool. I was actually forced to mob my brow with my just-laundered but still unsatisfactorily sanitary cardigan, which then made me paranoid that I would have little pieces of brown lint all over my face and people would think I had gotten in a poo fight with a Bonobo monkey.

After buying the entire fucking magazine section, I left with every intention of retreating to my little apartment with my little air conditioner and my stack o' mags.

BUT ALAS. As I exited I realized that I was face to face with the Union Square Market, and since I've been trying to force myself to eat fruits and vegetables more, I could not very well pass up the opportunity to peruse and purchase some of the agrarian bounty of the season. Mind you I was still sweating but making a ferocious effort to tell myself I was not concerned about the ocean of perspiration gathering in the little ditches below my specs.

Well in case you care, I bought some cherries. And some cheese. Not cheez. Cheese. So much for the leafy greens I aspired to. By the time I'd gotten my quarter-pound of raw milk havarti I was so thoroughly wet (get your mind out of the gutter!) that I couldn't bring myself to stop by the heirloom tomato stand, let alone peruse the purslaine (sic). I walked quickly towards the subway, praying that the L train would not require a long wait and that I'd soon be heading towards my marginally cool apartment where I could disrobe and aim the AC directly at my little face.

No such luck. A full ten minutes of near-hysteria ensued. I resorted to removing my glasses entirely in order to reap the full effects of the woefully weak fans, which made me even more disoriented. Those ten minutes were the grossest in recent memory.

For those of you who are wondering, I made it home in one piece. I am typing this in the comfort of my cute, cool, orange-blossom scented room. I do not plan on leaving until the disgusting humidity outside lifts. Or until I feel like getting drunk. Whichever comes first.


*Dr. X is my physician and crush object. He is sexually ambiguous enough to not make me nervous when he palpates my boobs, but is big and burly and strong and has a kind face and I daydream about hugging him. Ah, Dr. X -- I gladly put my life in your hands!