Sweat

There are a lot of things I could address in today's blog post. There was an incredibly inspiring event this weekend, I got a cat, this is my last week in my 20's and I may have some incredibly exciting job news on the horizon.

But in spite of all of that, I wanted to take a moment today to discuss something very near and dear to my heart: male perspiration.

Saturday night started out like any other in LA. I was having a few drinks counting down the minutes before I was to Uber to a birthday dinner. I put together a near flawless outfit of dark red jeans, a Blue Lacoste shirt under a Cream Polo quarter zip. I even matched the undershirt with some blue Chucks.

I looked fucking great.

Dinner wasn't a problem. I sat and had polite conversation for two hours. I asked the people in my table radius what they did for a living and what their hobbies were. I showed general interest in their answers. I told some PG-13 jokes and smiled big in the group photo at the end. If my performance were to be rated in a mobile app I'm sure I would have received 5 stars.

But then we went dancing.

I should state now that usually this would be a good thing. If I were to give myself a 'self review' and have to grade myself on 5 things that I do well I think I would give myself a B+ at writing, an A- at sleeping on uncomfortable surfaces and an A at dancing. I wouldn't be able to think of two other things I'm good at.

But I am without question a phenomenal dancer.

I don't know why. Perhaps it is because I liked to hang out with the black kids at the middle school mixers and the only way to gain their approval was by being a somewhat competent dancer. Perhaps it is because I drink way too much and let all self doubt fly to the wind, or maybe it's because I am afraid to talk to girls and my coping mechanism is to express myself in a different way...

I ordered myself a cocktail when we got to the bar and posted up in a solid dance floor adjacent spot with my friends. Dance floor adjacent is a great spot to be because while you are not ON the dance floor, you are near enough to it that if one of your favorite songs plays or you make eyes with a pretty girl you can get to the dance floor without hesitation.

They were playing 90's rap on this particular night, one of my stronger genres. I was feeling very confident about this situation. Furthermore, some of my friends were already on the dance floor trying to talk to young women, setting me up for one of my favorite ice breakers 'Sorry about my friend, he's been drinking all day."

So I did that thing where you kinda half dance and watch out over the dance floor when I made eyes with her; a girl dancing with a group of her friends staring right at me. Maybe she thought my hair was cute, maybe she liked that I was tall, but she was almost definitely summoning me to the dance floor with her gaze.

I took one more shot and waited for the next song to play. As if I had willed it with my mind the Ludacris power ballad 'Get Back' plays over the speaker system. I know almost every word to this song and certainly when to break out the most advanced dance moves.

I confidently stride to the dance floor and start dancing with a girl named Sheila. She's 27 and works at Snap Chat. We are having a fantastic time. And then it hits...

I moved to Los Angeles to chase a professional dream, but also for the climate. I hated that Chicago was cold and grey 8 months of the year, I also hated losing a pea coat every time I would brave the elements to get to a bar, only to throw the coat down in a booth because it was too hot inside.

Los Angeles has been unseasonably cold and rainy this month. I hadn't worn that Cream Polo quarter zip in probably four years, so I forgot the danger of heading to a bar too bundled up.

The song came to a close and I realized a little moisture was gathering near my hair line.

"Oh my god," I thought to myself, "This is about to be pure water works."

In a last ditch effort, I pulled off my quarter zip and tried to resume dancing with Sheila. The next song was Justin Bieber's "What Do You Mean?" a great semi-quick song to dance to with someone you just met 4 minutes ago, but it was too late. I was sweating, profusely, it was only a matter of seconds before I would become drenched.

I don't think Sheila could process the severity of the situation, but she certainly saw the terror in my eyes.

"Is everything OK?"

Ya...I uh, just have to...my roommate is calling me. I'll be right back.

So I rush outside for some fresh air and will myself to stop sweating. I pace back and forth among the smokers. The bouncer eyes me curiously as if trying to decide if I'm acting too funny to be let back into the bar.

After a few minutes I'm cooled down a bit, I hand him my ID. He looks at me suspiciously before letting me back in.

I run to the bar and order two drinks and return to Sheila on the dance floor.

"Was everything OK?"

Yes. Everything is great.

It's a slower song so Sheila and I talk a little and I tell myself I might be out of the woods on this one before the DJ fucks me by playing possibly the most high energy song of the past 5 years in "Uptown Funk."

I don't stand a chance. By the first chorus I know that my night is over. I could try to kiss Sheila but the drops of sodium infused moisture on the tips of my hair would just fall onto her dress as if I was trying to recreate a romantic moment from Spiderman.

Maybe she would understand if I just told her.

"Look, I have a really athletic dancing style and it makes me sweat a lot."

Maybe she would say we should leave and get ice cream. Maybe she would say she 'thinks it's hot.'

I'll never know because I simply said. "My roommate is locked out. I have to go home.'

I didn't even wait for her number I was so embarrassed. She probably thinks she did something wrong.

God dammit today was the women's march for fuck's sake. I could have at least given Sheila an explanation before I ran, but much like Ryan Gosling in the opening act of La La Land. I grabbed my coat and disappeared into the night.

***

I don't remember when sweating became uncool.

In Elementary School I would unabashedly destroy kids in gym class basketball, I would run a 7 minute mile like it was nothing, but then I remember Freshman year of high school I would build in an extra 10 minutes to 'stop sweating' so I wouldn't be disgusting for my next class. By senior year I never exceeded 20% effort as to not sweat at all.

In college I would go out in a t shirt and shorts even in 30 degree weather because I knew that the concept of frost bite was nothing compared to the shame I would feel if I would sweat on a sorority girl inside Kilroy's.

Sometimes now I will go to a bar and now dance at all which KILLS me. I love dancing, LOVE IT. Not just because of the fact that it is a perfect ice breaker, I just thoroughly enjoy it. Yet my affinity for dancing is often eclipsed by my desire not to sweat.

I'm not sure why I sweat so much. Anecdotally I have a theory that it is tied to my incredible metabolism. I routinely order fast food in excess of 10 times a week. I crush calories harder than Michael Phelps and I exercise far less than I should. But somehow I avoid getting morbidly obese due to in part my long torso (for someone who is 6'3 I have fairly short legs, but a very long chest. I theorize this gives the fat more places to go) but I also think that my body just runs hot.

Think of a car engine, when you are around 5000 RPM you burn more gas. I think my body naturally runs at higher RPMs.

Now of course I enjoy not being fat but I also hate coming up with excuses to leave a bar when I'm having a good time. Every time I start to sweat and I am forced to leave a bar, I think of the girl who doesn't want to go out because she is feeling unpretty on that particular evening. The person who refuses to leave their room because of an unsightly pimple. The truth is, I do not want people to associate me with the human embodiment of precipitation.

I straight up cannot go to my favorite bar Townhouse anymore because the basement is a sauna. I have thrown in excess of 10 shirts away during my walk home because I figured they were too sweaty to salvage. There is no greater devastation than walking into your apartment shirtless and your roommate not asking for an explanation because he is well aware of the events that led to this.

In closing, I do not know what the future holds. I am unaware if there will ever be a cure for my affliction but I've heard that the first step in any battle is acceptance. I accept that I am a sweaty guy. I accept that it is gross. And I accept that there just may not be an amicable reconciliation with my affinity to dance to Bieber songs in hot divey bars and my desire not to sweat.

And to my fellow sweaters out there, you are not alone. I've gone home before midnight, I've lied to friends about feeling sick, I have turned down invites because I did not want to put myself in a vulnerable position. And maybe I'm taking myself too seriously. Maybe I should just, as the rappers say, 'make it rain.'

But in a year where I promised to be more honest to myself, I needed to talk through my emotional journey on here. Perspiration is my cross to bear.

Maybe I'm destined to just attend nothing but pool parties where I can secretly sweat in peace and no one will know. Or even desert raves where everyone is just too fucked up to care. Sheila if you're reading this. I'll see you at Splash House in the Spring, or who knows maybe some day I will learn to talk to women without drunkenly jumping around like an idiot to poppy tunes on a Saturday night.