The No. 1 spot on my list is a true indignity.
Imagine the scene: The summer sun blazes at its apex over a city street. The air warbles with an unrelenting haze. A construction worker in a white undershirt, sweat glistening over every inch of his body, puts aside his jackhammer and removes his hard hat. He pulls a well-worn bandana out of his back pocket and mops his forehead, giving himself an all-too-brief respite from the sweat dripping into his eyes, down his cheeks, under his chin, at the back of his neck. Can you see him? The poor thing.
Now cut the film in your head, rewind a few seconds, and replace that construction worker with me. Except I’m not doing any sort of hard labor. I am just existing in a middle-aged body in the summer. This sweat isn’t even the result of hot flashes; nothing exceptional is happening. In fact, it doesn’t even have to be that hot to make me drip like my life is depending on it. Once the thermometer inches above 70, my body is just doing its damnedest to keep me cool. The poor thing.
I never was a sweaty person. If I used deodorant at all up until my 40s, it was the wimpy stuff. I preferred a light baby powder scent that I’d sometimes swipe under my arms just for the fragrance. I genuinely didn’t get how people had liquid coming out of their body. Pit-stained shirts were never a thing for me. I used to produce sweat from exactly one place: across the bridge of my nose and onto my cheeks. But whatever hormonal shift has taken place inside of me has awakened a whole new monster. So here, in my 48th year, amidst a New York City heat wave, I feel the need to document all the new places I sweat, in descending order of annoyance.
7. The aforementioned armpits. This one is pretty standard, I know. I acknowledge my prior sweat-free privilege and I atone for my lack of sympathy. However, I still don’t get where all the liquid is coming from. Is this the best use of my body’s resources? Squirting juice from my underarms? Does this cool me? I truly don’t think so. I get the whole armpit hair trapping sweaty pheromones to attract a mate. That seems like clever system, but this? It’s just, like, gross.
6. My forehead. Much like the construction worker wiping his brow, my forehead (and, also, my hairline just above it) is my new personal watering system. I absolutely carry a handkerchief with me in the summer. It used to just be for outside summer workouts, but now I stuff one in my bag on the regular to catch the sweat before it makes my bangs look… stupid. I hear you can get Botox for this. In fact, last summer right after I considered joining a gym so I could work out in AC, I went down a Botox for hyperhidrosis rabbit hole. Still not sure I won’t eventually cave.
5. The rest of my face. The forehead gets its own mention because it’s such a profound sweater, but the rest of my face has joined the party. The delicate glistening across my nose has graduated to a much more adult business. I had no idea the crease between my bottom lip and my chin could sweat. I’ve half-jokingly credited my lack of prominent wrinkles to my skin becoming “self-hydrating.” I don’t know any of the science behind that, but a little laughter certainly draws the attention away from me dabbing myself with that godforsaken handkerchief.
4. Boobs. Again, I know I am very lucky to have lived the majority of my boob-owning life without the assault of sweat making their mere existence that much worse. (No shade thrown to anyone who enjoys theirs, but I find mine utterly annoying.) Sure, on scorching hot summer days of yore, I would notice a faint line of moisture when I took off my bra. But now, the bra itself is often wet upon removal. And I could probably keep a small animal alive on the amount of perspiration produced in the valley between them.
3. The back of my legs on any seat. Perhaps this is just whiny of me. I know when our bodies get warm, like when I squash my naked thighs against a hard surface in 90-degree heat, they are just trying to protect us, secreting moisture in hopes of catching a breeze. But every time I have to peel myself off my dining room chairs, a subway seat, a wooden bench, or an outdoor lounge chair, I curse my stupid self-regulation system, and hope I haven’t left an ass-shaped reminder in my wake.
2. My crotch. I’M SORRY! But you knew you were getting into a TMI post when you clicked. I know I can’t be the only lady-crotch sweater because Instagram has targeted me so accurately with ads for deodorant “for your whole body” and “from your pits to your bits” (or whatever clever ad copy they’re using these days). That tells me there must be a significant enough market of damp crotches out to demand products to help us out. I do not like sweating into my underwear one bit. I actually wondered for a little while whether there was something wrong with me. Was I leaking some vital fluids? Was I peeing myself and not realizing it? But after careful analysis, no. It’s just sweat. Undignified sweat.
1. My crack. I’m going to quickly type this out before I die of shame. Believe me when I say that I’m not excited about the possibility of future employers or dates Googling me and finding this page, but here we are. There might not be any place more disturbing or uncomfortable to have a bead of sweat roll down in public than the curve of your lower back—because you know without a doubt where it’s headed. You can’t dab at this bead. You just have to let it run its course and find its inevitable end.
For the most part, I’ve found growing older to be downright empowering. I love the sense of gravitas my experience has given me. Sure, I could do without gray hairs and a sagging neck, but I’ll gladly take them in exchange for the overall sense of peace that’s come with age. It’s cute that Mother Nature has built in a sweaty humility system for me, though. Who knows what I would have done with all this power otherwise.
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Lili Zarghami lives with her teenagers in Brooklyn. She’s been writing for and providing editorial direction at women’s websites like Redbook, HGTV, Better Homes & Gardens and more since the turn of the century. She can remember the addresses of all the places she was a latchkey kid but has no idea what her email password is.
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