Danielle Colley is a staff writer who also writes popular blog Keeping Up With The Holsbys. This post was first published there.
To read more of her work click here
Horses sweat, men perspire and ladies glow, right?
Summer is the time I notice I’m a smidge less glow stick and a touch more Phar Lap.
In the summer months, my glowing creates little puddles under my bra, with the occasional droplet breaking free and dashing towards my belly button, where it creates little salty pools that leave damp patches if I’m sitting down for too long.
I love summer. I’m a real summer girl but the second I move faster than a snail’s pace I crack a beaded sweat moustache, which no matter how many times I swipe at it, it springs back within seconds yodelling “Hey, this bird is a sweater!”
That sweat moustache is not solely located on the upper lip, it also pops shining beads on my nose, so it’s not technically a moustache. More like Teen Wolf but with sweat instead of mythical man/dog fuzz.
A shiny face can be matted down with powder however this would require some serious cakeage of powder that Mac hasn’t even created yet. It would be called ” concrete glow” or something equally alluring, and would require a chisel to remove it at the end of the day. I dread to think what that shit would do to my pores, which are very healthy FYI due to constant flushing.
I once bought a packet of those blotting sheets but they simply weren’t up to the task. Most people just throw away their oil-slicked single sheet and feel all dandy and fresh but I needed to wring that bad boy out before it waved a white flag and admitted defeat.
To be honest, it doesn’t end with my face. I’ve been known to have wet patches on my back, and between my boobs, but my personal favourite is swamp pits. You know that delightful ring of sweat people get under their arms?
If a guy is on TV and he has swamp pits, no matter if he’s Channing Freakin’ Tatum your eyes can’t drag themselves away as your stomach turns a little in its meat cocoon. Yeah, and I’m a girl. I’m not supposed to perspire into pit puddles and I’m sure not supposed to froth like a racehorse.
No part of my body is immune as has been witnessed when wearing short shorts on a plastic chair in the heat of the day…. When I stand I leave a W outlined on the chair in a shiny effusion which you must wipe away quickly as manners would suggest that leaving a bum puddle for the next patron is the height of rudeness.
At the gym, my shins even crack a squirt. Unlike Nicole.
I did a spin class next to Nicole Kidman and her minder who looked like a gorilla riding a toddler bike…. she didn’t crack even a singular bead of sweat. I’m not suggesting she’s has Botox, although I’m fairly sure she has considerably more expression in BMX Bandits than she does now.
Apparently Botox is a cracking solution for excessive sweating but frankly, if I was going to drop $800 on Botulism injections I’d whack it straight in my wrinkles, then at least no one could register my surprise when a rivulet surprises me and I freak out because I think an insect is running across my skin.
In my defence, I’m not stinky. I’m friends with some anti-aluminium hydrochloride people but I can’t get on board the B.O. train. With my awareness of my leaking problem, it’s only fair that I don’t make people’s eyes water when I hug them also.
Unlike if I lived in the northern hemisphere where the winters are endless and cruel but schvitz free, it is kind of a concern for about nine months of the year but I’ll take swamp pits, sunshine and cold beer over what they’re offering any day.
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