My internal thermometer has a favourite song. It goes something like this, "I'm gonna make you sweat, sweat till you can sweat no more..." and when I cry out, I know it's gonna make me sweat some more. Sweating has become as much a part of me as my accent (who am I kidding, I don't have an accent), my hair (who am I kidding...) and my impeccable dress sense.
It's been embarrassing, funny, frustrating, humiliating and at times alienating (not always a bad thing). I first recall my sweat ducts making a proper impact on my life during my Leaving Cert exams and ever since then I have lived with the knowledge an unquenchable water source was ready and willing to pour forward at any moment.
Looking back, every moment is laced with humour. At the time, not so much. I have learned to laugh or pass it off with a blase comment, although try being blase when the shirt you walked into the bar in has turned to a darker shade of blue from the light blue you started off with. Sometimes, there's nothing you can do other than squirm and frantically wipe your brow while pretending to fix your hair. Although try convincing someone you're fixing your hair when there's not much to fix.
I was on work experience with a local radio station. I was working with the promotions team doing events. I was 16. I was self conscious. There were girls. I was having trouble hiding the sweat patches. These kind of conditions hone resourcefulness in young males. I decided that the best approach was to wear a t shirt over my t shirt. Genius. Until the extra layer caused my body temperature to rise, resulting in the inevitable. I couldn't take off a layer because that would leave me back at a wetter square one, so the obvious solution was to add a layer. I remember wearing eight t shirts one day. I looked like I was built like a brick shit house, with all the hygiene of one too.
Sport opens the flood gates. Two minutes into any game and I will be drenched. It just starts and doesn't stop. It could be the coldest day, lashing rain with intermittent snow storms and I will still sweat. Brilliant when you head up for a corner and the opposition defender gets a little too close and then immediately recoils in horror. "Holy f^ck, what the f&ck is wrong with you?!" is one of my favourite reactions, "Hard work, you should try it!", is my favourite response, if we're winning. That is of course if I am playing football against men.
Tag rugby against a mixture of men and women... a little different. It's generally a non-contact sport, but contact is inevitable. When my t shirt feels like it has just come out of the wash, the girl I run into will not thank me. Generally she will be polite and won't say anything... verbally that is. She will, however, communicate. Her face contorts slowly, she grimaces for about five seconds and her eyes burn through me. We're never gonna be friends, which is great because it's harder to grab my tag while avoiding droplets of projectile sweat!
The slightest changes in temperature have an astronomical impact. My previous employers had two offices. I worked in the freezing one and often made the trip over to the sauna version. One morning I arrived in the office to set up my laptop. The unthinkable happened, I couldn't find a socket for my machine. I began to panic. I was on all fours, fumbling around on the floor. I couldn't get the image of my crack on show for all to see out of my head. I got myself into a wild frenzy, imagining my emergence from the undergrowth being met by every colleague I had ever met staring at me.
Obviously this didn't happen, but I was in such a tizzy my sweat glands reacted like never before. My hair was soaked through, my shirt was stuck to my back, my crack was probably being eroded by the river of sweat pouring south. I was literally having a meltdown, when up pops the resident comic "Are you alright there, I didn't think showers were forecast?". I'd almost convinced myself it was barely noticeable.
Recently I was called to a meeting to have some new responsibilities and changes to my job explained. Nothing to worry about just a few more obligations. This is how it panned out:
Manager: How is your current workload?
Me: Fine, manageable, I'm not under too much stress.
My thoughts: Wow, it's warmer in here than I thought.
Manager: Obviously with the recent changes you will need to take on extra workload.
Me: That's no bother
My thoughts: Am I sweating? Ah for f*ck sake, this is awkward
Manager: So we will need you to blah... blah..
Me: ....
My thoughts: What is going on?! I'm not even listening, a drop of sweat just jumped from my forehead onto the desk.
Manager: Is that going to be a problem?
Me: I can't think why it would be
My thoughts: Is what going to be a problem?! Oh shit I haven't been listening!
My thoughts: Of course you haven't been, you're covered in sweat and probably turning pale, stop wiping your face! Wipe your face for God's sake! Don't make eye contact.
My thoughts: Just make reference to it with a joke and be done with it
Manager: So are you happy with all those changes?
Me: Yeah, sounds good.
My thoughts: She better send a mail detailing what we have just been talking about because I have been fighting an internal tsunami.
Mass... I used to dread the sign of the peace. A teenagers limp handshake is made all the more pathetic when a good grip is nigh impossible.
I once had to leave an interview I was sweating that much. I wasn't being interviewed, I wasn't t even the one leading the interview. I dropped out for a glass of water and spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom with my shirt under the hand dryer!
So next time I walk into a room, subtly ratch up the radiator a couple of notches, sit back and enjoy the show. Shamu ain't got nothing on this splash zone! Just make sure you have enough of those yellow "slippery when wet" signs at the ready.
