Sweat. I just returned from a two hour flash mob choreography session, as evidenced by the swaths of sweat discoloring my t-shirt and the sexy mositure beading on my upper lip no matter how many times I wipe the area with the back of my hand. Sure, there were over 150 people crammed into a small ballroom on a summer evening so it seems likely that everyone involved would work up a nice sheen. Well, from my vantage point I seemed to be the only one visibly perspiring (and, yes, I coated myself in some lovely Dove anti-perspirant before venturing out the door). Even the portly gentleman next to me was bustin' out classic MJ moves sans sweat stains. I felt especially sorry for the woman standing behind me in the domino sequence who ended up underneath me with her hands jammed in my damp armpits. She smiled warmly at me in what I imagine was an attempt to reassure me that I am not a vile human being and then promptly switched to another line. Not a great way to make new friends, this little problem of mine. As unsightly as my propensity for perspiration is, at least there will always be someone in the room who is sweatier than you when we hang out, Jason. You won't have to fret about strangers eyeballing you in disgust while contemplating whether they should do you a favor and pick up some deodorant for you at the corner store. And who knows, maybe one day a brillaint eco-savvy scientist will figure out how to solve the energy crisis by harnessing the power of my sweat. Until then, perhaps you should think twice about hugging me on hot days or in high-pressure situations, like competitive Scrabble, and just glory in the fact that when I'm nearby no one will ever accuse you of secreting like a porcine quadraped.
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