How to Be…Sweaty.

by Lindsay Timmington

Day 15 of the yoga girl challenge is SWEAT and all I gotta say is this:

Try harder, yoga girl.  This ain’t a CHALLENGE for me. I sweat if I turn on too many lights in the house. I sweat if I walk at a slight faster clip than normal, I sweat if it looks hot on TV. I sweat if someone else is sweating. I sweat at the thought of anything spicier than ketchup.

I sweat.

So no problemo here.

Well, actually big problemo.  I steadfastly believe that one of the reasons I despised Hawaii when I first moved there was because we happened to move during a time when the trade winds were OUT, rendering the temperatures on the tropical aisle of Hawaii unbearable to this cold-weather-Minnesota-born gal. I’d bike to school early in the morning and have to take a shower once there, or if not a shower (cause let’s face it I’m both sweaty and chronically late–sexy, I know!) than a fast and frantic rendezvous with as many paper towels as I could take without feeling like a rainforest killer.

I sweat so much and so often that the color gray (one of my favorites!) is banned from my wardrobe. I sweat so much that when I take hot yoga I have to bring extra towels and one time I was so sweaty that I fell. Slipped in my own sweat. On my mat. In front of the whole class. I sweat so much that I carry a handkerchief around with me in my purse. To mop my brow. And back. And boobs. Like an 84 year old man.  I sweat so much that I often blow dry my hair either in front of the AC or in front of an open freezer door (sorry Al Gore!). I sweat so much that I threatened my ex-husband with his life one night as we lay sweltering in bed because the f-ing cheapskate wouldn’t turn on the AC citing price per kilowatt and all that shit.  I cited price per ball and he flipped the AC on.

I sweat so much that once on a date in the middle of summer, I was racing to meet said date, wearing a cute little dress that currently looked like I’d pulled it directly from the washing machine and when he went to hug me I screamed “DON’T!!” scaring him and all neighboring passerby. But it was too late. The poor bastard had hugged me and his hand dripped with my back sweat. I actually had to watch him wipe my sweat on his pants. You guys. I think I figured out why I’m still single.

So logically, the only time I enjoy sweating is when I work out.  In my opinion, sweating during a workout=good workout=more calories burned=now you may eat some cookies.  I’m good with sweating when it’s intentional.  Happy to do so.  I will out-sweat you any ol’ day of the week no questions asked. Bring it.

But really, yoga girl’s challenge couldn’t have been more appropriately time for today as the high in NYC was 91 degrees with 51% humidity. So when Fable and I went out for a run at 10:30am it was already stupidly hot.  Fable had her ice collar on, and got an underbelly spray down with the hose to keep her coolish but I had already started sweating when I hooked on my sports bra in my air conditioned apartment.  I was toast before I’d even hit start on my running watch.

Then later, after showering and doing my hair I unrolled my yoga mat for a bit of practice and had barely left child’s pose when I began to perspire, glow, glisten—f-that–sweat.  Twenty minutes later and I found myself drying off from a not at all vigorous yoga session.  Guys, do you get it? I sweat. 

Some people cry “Sweating means your healthy! It means things are working right!” I cry, “That’s great and all but can I be healthy and not at all sopping wet for 75% of my life? Can I arrive someplace and look as nice as I did when I left my air conditioned apartment?” To which I’m sure many of you might point out, “You know Lindsay…you could just leave earlier and have time to walk slower.”

Touche guys.  Touche.

photo 1

What’s the best kind of selfie? A SWEATY selfie.

photo 2

Fables says, “Dogs don’t sweat, bitches.”

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