So I’ve been back in
the convection oven Toronto for about a week now after my glorious vacation in Nova Scotia, and while I’m slowly settling back into my day-to-day routine, there’s one thing about this city I just can’t seem to get used to.
The insufferable. unbearable. suffocating heat.
…..By the way, if you’re wondering what that sound was, it was the whoosh of my ass breezing past the Zero mark on the originality scale and landing firmly in negative territory.. because yes folks, I am talking about the weather.
But not without good reason. The heat wave we have been experiencing here in Toronto is unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. A far cry from the temperate, maritime climate I’m used to back home, where if it gets too hot you can always take a dip in the
freezing refreshing Atlantic, this my friends, is city heat. Disgusting, dirty, crowded, city heat. Where the base temperature, already equalling the average age of the Backstreet Boys) is exponentially multiplied by a combination of smog, filthy exhaust, and the 4 million other people all seemingly crowded onto my very subway train.
It’s the kind of heat none of the other types of heat want to be friends with. The kind that gets left off the invite list for Satan’s annual pig roast in hell.
You catch my drift?
Now, while the heat in and of itself is bad, it’s really the effects of this noise that are troubling me. Specifically- one particular ailment that has been plaguing me since the dreaded summer solstice reared its ugly head:
Hot, sweaty, dripping, disgusting sweat.
And not the Britney Spears “I’m a Slave 4 U” kind. I promise you it’s way less sexy than that.
For the past 6 weeks, I’ve found that no matter where I am, or what I am doing in this city, I am sweating. I can never be cool enough. Not even when I’m blasting the AC in my apartment and watching Big Brother in my bikini while praying to Al Gore for forgiveness and crush a pint of Haagen Dazs.
Resistance is futile. I have simply resigned myself to the fact that all of my pores have decided to mutiny against me and leak their saliferous fluids from my body at an alarming and unrelenting rate. I’ve considered getting Botox injections in my underarms to stop it, but one of my coworkers did this and now experiences something called “compensatory sweating”, where sweat leaks unexpectedly from other random locations on her body.
Man, that’s some freaky Peter Parker sh*t right there.
I think instead I’ll just accept the fact that I’m beginning to look a bit like the late, great Whitney Houston…who, god rest her soul, was always sweating like a wh*re in church.
I’m not exactly sure what the root cause of her perspiration problem was, but for the sake of her memory let’s just assume it was genetic or hormonal and not due to more nefarious causes (*cough* CRACK *cough*). Anyway, I feel like any day now people are going to start calling me “Whitney” to my face, because I’m sure they are all looking at me walking down the sidewalk, damp hair clinging to the back of my neck, visible sweat stains appearing through my shirt, and thinking, “wow… b*tch be looking all “Why does it Hurt so Bad” at the 1996 MTV awards, and that sh*t ain’t pretty”.
If this does happen, I of course will have no choice but to start carrying around a little white handkerchief everywhere I go and repeating “I wanna see the receipts!” ad nauseam. Go big, or go home, I always say.
Anyway, because I’m bored and it’s pointless, I’ve decided to rate some of my daily activities on a scale of 1-10 Whitney Houstons based on how sweaty I become while engaging in them. (C’mon.. you know you wanna play this game).. Here goes:
1. Riding the subway:
Can someone please explain to me why it’s so damn HOT down there? Isn’t it like… underground?
Score: 7 Whitney Houstons
2. Running Outside
I don’t know why I insist on doing this. I must have been dropped on my head as a child.
Score: 8 Whitney Houstons
3. Walking around/Generally Living
Man, just don’t even do it.
Score: 9 Whitney Houstons
4. Blowdrying my hair:
Ladies, I know you feel me on this one. You toil under a hot implement in 40 degree weather for upwards of 10 excruciating minutes, just to have the whole activity rendered useless by the time you get to work and have sweat-drenched locks. In my efforts to stretch out the time between blowdrys, I’ve taken to utilizing headbands and dry shampoo in unhealthy doses. Every day is an internal battle not to put my hair up in a ponytail. For this hell, I give it 10 Whitney Houstons:
Good thing I’m boycotting 50 Shades of Grey. I don’t think there’s a Whitney scale in the world big enough to handle that sh*t.
Question of the Day: Do you share my perspiration dilemma??
… and just don’t even bother answering if you’re one of those skinny b*tches who miraculously doesn’t sweat, ever. I’
m so jealous of you I could cry hate you anyway.
P.S. Naming this post was both a hilarious and ridiculous exercise which required much consultation with friends. Here are some honourable mentions that didn’t make the cut:
“Saving All my Sweat for You”
“The Greatest Sweat of All”
“I’m Your [Sweaty] Baby Tonight”
…. and for all my fellow Zoolander fans out there:
“Sweating: So Hot Right Now”
… as always, thanks for reading my verbal perspiration