For the love of sweet baby Jesus

What is with this heat? It’s not time…..

Water is pouring out of every part of my body. What is happening? Why aren’t I smaller? Why this is hell, nor are am out of it…..

I’m a bit hot.

Scorching temperatures have arrived (it’s already 36 degrees) and are expected to increase in a freaky heat wave that is gripping mainland Europe. Hello there, welcome to the weather forecast…… apparently, I’m branching out. I may be delirious. I’m sure I can see a camel crossing my lounge through the wavy heat.

This hell has sparked the premature arrival of the time of year I like to call; Arseageddon. Two months mostly spent trying to avoid a visibly sweaty back end. You know, that moment, when you stand up after say, a lovely lunch or dinner with friends, or from the desk after class, and realise you have, what I adoringly like to refer to as the ‘bum smile’. No? ^tumbleweed^ Just me then.

Sadly, I am not a woman who glows, or one who has enough money to invest in a surgically managed sweat-free body, a la Kim Kardashian. I perspire. Ok. It’s perfectly natural and human and anyone who thinks otherwise can kiss my arse. Actually, that is not recommendable any time of the year, especially not at the moment.

Most women’s press would have you believe it’s unsightly and dirty and something to be ashamed of. It’s nature’s way of keeping cool. End of……. end of….. see what I did there?

Despite knowing better than feeling embarrassed, I do remember the first time the bum smile happened to me, before I was used to the notion that when humans get hot, they sweat and it shows (British, you see). I had just arrived in Barcelona and went out for a couple of drinks and pintxos with a bunch of people I didn’t know from the school I’d got work in. We went to the FURNACE AT THE GATES OF HELL (a tiny, packed bar). After sitting for only a few minutes, stressed out of my tree (new country, new people, only six hours a week work secured), I needed to pee and stood up, only to realise that my khaki cargo pants were stuck to my rump. Khaki banished from the summer wardrobe forever. And any shade of blue, except navy. And red, orange, green… Listen. Basically black and dark pattern are ok this time of year. Punto. I scuttled to the bathroom like a naked and vulnerable hermit crab looking for a new shell before the seagulls swoop in. Trying to avoid the table of colleagues seeing evidence of my stress in the heat, while also trying to avoid every other patron of Satan’s kitchen from seeing it too was a lost cause. Mor…..tif…..ied.

During the summer months, every moment seated is a moment spent contorting into wholly unnatural shapes you never knew were possible, to avoid a hundred percent contact with the chair and minimise the consequences. I really should get around to giving yoga a whirl, I’ve been threatening it for years. I might be better at it than I expected.

And my ass is just the underside of the iceberg. If you have breasts or arms or a face and neck, or skin, then you are going to appear as if you just stepped out of a shower, for approximately sixteen hours of every single day for at least the next two months. We’re human, we perspire. Get over it. All we can do is endeavour to make it as comfortable as possible in the coming months. Assume the position, people! Spread eagle in front of a fan on full blast, barely moving an inch. But not in work. That would not be cool. *Actually, it literally would.

So, as I dig out the flimsiest clothes I can get away with wearing on a daily basis, and limber up for another week of perching and lifting, while ducking from air-conditioned office to cafe to bar, I’m already quietly looking forward to storm season…… and buying my own body weight in talc and industrial-strength Rexona.

Now, anyone know how to get into the ratchet operated man-spray? Heat-addled lady brain, you see……

*I am in no way advocating nakidity in the workplace.


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