Beat the Heat Like a Spaniard
Maintaining sanity when you’re standing in a puddle of your own sweat.
I moved to Spain two years ago, so this will be my third summer of complaining loudly to anyone who will listen that I’m “sweating my fuckin’ balls off” and “Is my face really red right now? I feel like my face is probably really red right now” and “There is so much sweat in my butt crack right now omg can you see it through my pants?”.
I grew up in Tucson, Arizona — where I would complain just as obnoxiously about the 120-degree weather (48.8 for you celsius dweebs). It wasn’t the higher temperatures that made Tucson worse, though. It was the fact that people would always inevitably give me this nails-on-a-chalkboard response:
“Well, at least it’s a dry heat.”
They’re lucky I was so dehydrated or I might’ve had the energy to punch them in the face.
I hate all heat, ok? I hate wearing shorts, I hate chub rub on my thighs, I hate that my sweat attracts mosquitoes. I hate that, when I get bit by a mosquito, my skin swells up like I’m covered in extra nipples — areolas and all. I hate applying sunscreen, I hate wearing sunglasses, I hate getting sweat in my eyes, I hate the sweat that builds up on my upper lip and in my eyebrows, I hate not being able to…
