I have dry feet.
Well, not feet so dry that the skin cracks and you need to dunk them in Noxema. My feet just don’t get sweaty. Like ever. Honest injun! Same with my pits. They don’t sweat. To prove this I didn’t wear deodarant for an entire year. I told only two people – my (now) ex-wife and the one person I managed at a previous job. I got them together for a drink at a local pub – this way I only had to explain once.
I’m going to do this. If you smell anything, and I mean anything – even if it’s just your mind playing tricks on your nose, you pull me aside and beat me with your respective purses.
And, I’m not one of those idiots that thinks deodorant is bad for you. I just did it to prove to myself that I don’t sweat under my arms. And, over a full year – not one smell. After a year I abandoned the experiment. I had already proven the theorem.
However, while my feet and armpits remain dry even after a hard workout, my chest and back do not.
This is a new development. I noticed it over the past five years at night in Chicago during the summertime. I’d go out to an event with a nice shirt and it would end up all soaked in the front and back by the time the second shrimp tray arrived.
I’ll pause for a moment why you ladies run to the bedroom to change your underwear as you probably just got over-excited. Like my chest and back!
After ten years of going out to things at night and ending up looking like I’m dying of consumption, I decided to take action. I made the mistake of doing some research at a website for hyperhidrosis. This is a condition of bizarre, insane, sweatyness. Yes, this was me, I decided. As I looked at one disgusting photo after another, there but for the grace of God went I. Excited, I woke up my girlfriend to deliver the news. She sleeps with her mouth open and it’s gross so I feel that it’s okay to wake her up. She needed to know that I had a horrifying skin condition. I told her it was okay to leave on the next train and nobody could blame her. She yawned, told me to go see a dermatologist and went back to sleep. She has perfect skin so I cursed her silently.
A few months later I went in to see the derm. It turns out I saw three derms that day. At the same time. They all came in to my room to check me out which, as I look back, seems odd. Taking off your shirt in front of one woman is hard enough. Try three. I mentioned the sweating, but also couldn’t help by throw in, “My feet and armpits, though, I mean, it’s really impressive.”
I asked about hyperhidrosis and they said, almost in unison, “Uh, no. You’re fine.” I then suggested maybe a thyroid test. They politely told me that it’s not necessary. I was normal they all agreed.
I ended up taking off all my clothes because I also wanted my moles checked. But it’s not like dermatologists just look at your arms and back. They checked everything. One of the doctors even picked up my unit and studied it like the Zapruder film. I don’t have any moles there, but maybe she was just curious. I didn’t hear her scream or say anything so I guess that means I’m healthy.
After the improper touching they told me the diagnosis. It turns out that I’m just a chest-and-back-sweat-guy. Nothing I can do about it unless I want to start shooting botox shot into my pecs. I’m not against the idea, but I never even tried steroids, and that would be a more logical first step. Get some muscles first, then deal with the perspiration.
The only solution was to start wearing an undershirt. But undershirts are lame. Nobody cool wears an undershirt, right? I mean, unless there was an undershirt that stays hidden while wearing button down shirts and still being able to show off my amazing chest hair. But does such a thing exist?
Yes, there are undershirts for guys who need undershirts but who want to fool you into thinking undershirts are dumb. The first time I put one on, my girlfriend was so freaked out she asked me to never do that in front of her again. I couldn’t blame her. I looked in the mirror and nearly vomited myself. What you don’t get a sense of in the photo above is that it’s skin tight. Some of my chest hairs poked right through the sheer fabric.
But, the damned thing works. I can now safely go out at night with the all the swagger of a guy who beats up other guys because they’re wearing undershirts. Because I’m not wearing one – according to you. And, you know what else is lame – guys who sweat through their dress shirts! Let’s go beat up some of those losers! Look, there’s one. Get him!
Sure – I’m a fraud. I get it. But people that are diabetic hide their diabetes with insulin, so they’re frauds, too!
