Head Sweating

I am a head-sweater.

TMI?

I don't know why I am a head-sweater. I do not think my parents are head-sweaters, but I should ask and find out for sure. I mean, maybe it's genetic.

For those unfamiliar with the term head-sweater, it simply means that I sweat from my head. It always begins with the head. Perhaps this makes sense because heat is supposed to rise upwards and people are always talking about the importance of keeping your head warm.

Some people sweat from their feet. Others may have damp palms. Some people sweat from their underarms or elsewhere. For me, it is my head.

I do not even need to be particularly hot, when I notice a little drip maneuvering its way from my scalp, past my hairline, down my brow, and into my eye. (Ouch, it stings!) Or perhaps if I tip my head just so, gravity will work her magic and it will slide down my cheek. A meandering tear. If I'm hot, eating spicy food, etc. hand me a towel to apply to my fevered brow (or wet head).

At its most innocuous, it is inconvenient. At its worst, quite embarrassing. You see, when my head sweats, I do not only have to worry about combating the actual sweat coming down my head (rivulets), but my head gets hot, too. (It looks like I'm blushing or have a bad case of rosaca). And I wear glasses. The result? My glasses fog up. And if the unobservant (or forgiving) of you may not notice the sweat, you will definitely notice my glasses fogging up when you can no longer see my eyes. Like walking out of Ice Palace on a humid day. Voosh! Instant fog.

So, not only do I have to worry about discretely sopping up the immense amount of liquid pouring off of my head (is this the price I pay for being well-hydrated?), but I also need to be cognizant of wiping my glasses so I can actually see. Sometimes I just take off my glasses and squint. I prefer semi-blindness over having to wipe my glasses and my forehead every 5 seconds or so. This way I can focus on my sweat and I get the bonus of not being able to see clearly the expressions of those around me...or where they may be focusing their attention (perhaps on the girl who is sweatting profusely from her head and has the foggy glasses?)

You will rarely see me wearing a hat. Perhaps a visor on occasion, but not a hat or cap. Not just because I tend to look silly in hats, but they also trap all the heat in, which creates a sauna-effect on my head. Not pleasant.

I do not tend to sweat profusely from anywhere else (except if I'm really hot or exerting myself like a challenging doubles game at noon). It makes me wonder, are there other head-sweaters out there? Are you the bandana or sweat-band wearing among us? Do we have our own support group? Does someone out there understand why I can be completely dry everywhere else, but my head will be raining sweat down like I was hanging out on deck with Noah on day 20?

I can go about my business, then suddenly I feel the tell-tale trickle along my hairline before even registering that I may be hot. Perhaps I should carry a hankie around with me like the Southern Belles did (or do...I don't know much about Southern Belles). A perfumed handkerchief which I can use to delicately daub my glistening forehead, in the most demurest of fashions, of course! Yup, that's me. I'm not in the corner, but maybe if the spotlight is on me, you will see a hanky (or more likely my sleeve) lift gingerly to my temple to absorb my head sweat. Ahh...so lovely!

Drips and Dribbles and Spills, Oh My!

I have a problem. Well technically, I have several problems, I suppose, but there is one in particular I wish to discuss. For some unfathomable reason, I am unable to remain clean while I eat. I could understand this if I was careless or lacked decorum, but I am generally a polite and conscientious eater. All right, in full disclosure, I may occasionally talk with food in my mouth. Oh, and I also eat off of other people’s plates, but only with an invitation and just to steal a couple of french fries or something like that.

But other than that, very polite and conscientious. I mean, I do not chew with my mouth open. I ask my fellow diners to pass me things rather than reaching over them. I do my best to avoid drips and dribbles. I tend to use the correct silverware for its intended purpose. Most people would find me a decorous, non-embarrassing dining partner.

Despite all this, I almost always manage to get food on me. Usually my blouse and/or my hair. Of course, if I drip sauce on my hair, it eventually touches my blouse leaving a stain. I am baffled, because I honestly make a conscientious effort to eat neatly (ever since I noticed my propensity to stain my blouses). I try not to splatter sauce if eating noodles; I endeavor not to drip soup or some ooey, gooey dip; and I am focused when eating salad with dressing.

It has made me paranoid and distracted. When eating out, I continually look at my shirt and hair to see if I made a mess. One minute I am fine, clean and pristine. The next minute . . . glop. Pass me a napkin and an individually packaged “Shout” towelette. So, if we ever happen to eat together, please do not be offended if I seem to be looking down my shirt rather than listening to your scintillating conversation. It’s me, not you.

I saw a Japanese movie recently called, “Gu-Gu the Cat.” The main character kept getting rice in her hair. I could totally relate. I remember eating a teishoku meal at Sushi King (teri chicken and shrimp tempura with sauce, of course). I had to ask my friend to drop me off at home before going to the movie so I could change my shirt! I had speckles of sauce and other debris on me and did not want to go to the movie theatre (aka out in public) like that. Yesterday, as I was hanging up my blouse I noticed some red/pinkish dust near my top button and lapels. It was remnants of my lunch which included Flaming Hot Cheetos.

So what is wrong with me? I could understand if I was a total slob or unconscious of any of the social graces related to eating. (Makes me think of the Friends episode in which Ross is dating a well-put together woman whose apartment is disgustingly slovenly). It is to the point where I am putting off cutting my hair (to donate it), because a part of me fears losing my ability to cover my uncomely splotches and splooches.

I am seriously thinking of creating some kind of quasi-fashionable bib to wear when I go out to eat. It’s either that or only eat at lobster shaks. Of course, I have no idea what this quasi-fashionable bib would look like. I am even calling it quasi-fashionable, because I already recognize the impossibility of wearing any type of bib while I eat and calling it fashionable.

Has it come to this? A plastic parka as my signature fashion statement? *Sigh* Guess I better go to Longs and stock up on Shout towelettes.

Movie Popcorn Amnesia

Like a siren’s call to unsuspecting sailors, so is movie popcorn to me. That roasty, toasty smell of freshly popped corn. The bag, overflowing in its bounty. The “butter” coating each kernel so it catches and reflects the light just so. The satisfying crunchy texture. The salty goodness tantalizing my taste buds. Yes, it is difficult to resist movie popcorn.

So I eat it. I munch and I devour. My fingers become slick with oil, with a touch of traction provided by the salt. My lips glossy with butter-flavored goodness. Somehow it is easy to lose track of how much I am eating while I am being entertained by the action and dialog on the big screen in front of me. Watch, grab, chew, swallow . . . repeat.

Unfortunately, by the time the credits are rolling, so is my previously happy belly. Somehow, the light, fluffy kernels have turned into rusty lead pellets working their way through my intestines – and not in a nice, orderly way, but in a not nice, disorderly way. The unholy combination of fibrous popcorn absorbing liquid and butter-flavored product greasing my insides serve to disrupt the delicate balance of my gastro-intestinal tract.

I will groan tonight. I shall toss and turn, in a vain attempt to find some comfortable position. A position that will quiet the quite-irritated-on-the-verge-of-being-quite-angry stomach of mine that is rebelling against my movie popcorn indulgence. But alas, alack! No position exists and as I lie curled in a fetal position at the mercy of my aging innards, I will ponder how they no longer possess the ability to take the abuse it would literally have sucked up in its younger years. That is, if I am able to ponder anything at all.

One would think that an intelligent, well-educated individual such as myself would spare myself the agony and skip the movie popcorn. But no, like the true siren’s call, it bids me to chomp anew. Each time, like the first time, I am compelled to answer the call. I settle into my seat in the cool, dark room, snuggling my bag of popcorn close to my heart. I smell the familiar smell and I happily begin stuffing my face . . . four, even five kernels at a time. Like movie popcorn had never upset my stomach before. Movie popcorn amnesia. I’ve got it. I’ve got it bad.