I Am a Sweaty Girl

It's hotter than Mercury here in NYC, which is a problem is you're a sweaty person like me.

Most people sweat in this weather: What I do is mutate into a human sprinkler. I seriously look like I've been hit with a hose. Like maybe one of those guys who's always spraying down the sidewalks in front of apartment buildings got me by mistake. (Note: They never do this. There's clearly a lot of training that must be gone through before one can become a Hose Guy.)

Today, I walked my usual eight blocks to the train, only to discover that I was completely covered in perspiration. I mean, but completely. Usually I'm a tad damp. It looked like I had neglected to dry off at all when I got out of the shower.

It was so bad that I couldn't even tell myself it wasn't that bad. This is because people were staring. I learned something today, though: I learned that if you're a sweaty girl, people will fuck right off out of your way on the train.

I owe this realization to the dried up ol' sourpuss who was standing next to me on the B train this morning. She had a lot of bright red hair, nine gold necklaces, actual stone-washed jeans, and a face full of puckers that weren't entirely the fault of the aging process and/or overexposure to the sun and Merit Ultralights.

She stared at me in disgust as I continued to water my little square foot of standing room, so I stared right back at her. After a moment, I began wiping my chest and making horrid sickly little groaning sounds, like maybe the TB was going to take me at last. Finally, she looked away.

Seriously, lady: Would I sweat this much if I could help it? Just because you haven't had a natural bodily function since 1983, is that any reason to take it out on me?

Update on the Subway

My week began on Tuesday with vomiting.

Not mine, I'm pleased to report. Someone else's. I got out of the subway and there she was, Ms. Honorary Monday Hangover Right-Now, puking elaborately into a trashcan just outside the 14th street F.

Now, if she'd looked distressed, I might've stopped and lent a hand. I don't, as my English friend Luke would say, mind doing a bit. Howsomever, this young lady was grinning maniacally whilst puking, which to me says crazy. If you're smiling and puking , you better be on peyote. And even then, I'm not a-gonna stick around to talk to you.

The rest of the week was less eventful, but a definite step up.

Two Conversations: Mostly-Shirt-Free Lady on the Train

Me: Oh my God.

Matthew: I know.

Me: Look at them.

Matthew: I am. OK, don't look at them.

Me: Sorry. They're just mesmerizing.

Matthew: Uh huh.

Me: Maybe we could draw little eyes on them.

Matthew: [Looking at me in alarm.]

Me: And stick a carrot between them!

Matthew: ...

Me: And then do you know what we'd have?

Matthew: ...no.

Me: SNOW BOOBS!

Matthew: You. Are. So. Weird.

Me: I know.

Matthew: WEIRD.

I mean, come on.

Am I a New Yorker Yet?

Lady Sitting Near Me on the 2/3: Your bag keeps bumping into me!

Me: Shhh, no one cares.