Superheros don't sweat

Swing on string through Gotham's towers,

I don't sweat.

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Throw batarangs o'er people's flowers

I don't sweat.

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Immolate with laser eyesight

Stop the world with speed-of-light flight

Bust some heads in a bad-guy bar fight

I don't sweat.

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But why? Why doesn't Spiderman, in his tight (oooh!) spandex (aaaah!) full-body suit ever have pit stains after flipping and twisting all the way across a major metropolitan area? Why don't we see telltale dark spots on Superman's chest after he pulls a Buick off of little Jimmy? Why doesn't Batman show a sheen of moisture on his upper bat-lip after having jousted with the Joker or pounced upon the Penguin?

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Did they take some kind of mega-anti-sweat potion when the super-suits were issued? Are there ultra-absorbent dress shields lining those painted-on outfits? Do they take a vow of dryness supplemented with botox injections to the pittal area?

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Whatever the secret, I want me some of that. I want to not sweat like a superhero. It would be nice to be cool and pale and smooth all the time, with no moisture issues. It would be great to take a shower and not have to plaster the pits with something that in all likelihood will give me some form of brain deposts and shove me down the slide of senility a few years earlier than if I DIDN'T have to protect against odor and wetness. I would like to be one of those women who can wear tight-sleeve shirts or turtlenecks or sweaters and look all cute and fashionable and not at all sweaty or uncomfortable. They must have some superhero in them, because I can't figure it out.

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What follows is a story about me and sweat, because I believe in "the sharing."

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I once went to a cotillion. I was a senior in high school, it was at some military "thing" in Washington DC, and only the girls from some honor society or something were invited to go. This, of course, meant that all my friends (the earliest identified geek team in existence) were going to go, and I was pressured into going as well. This might surprise you, but I am not now, nor was I ever, a cotillion kind of girl, so it took a bit of doing to force my consent to attend.

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Once decided on the course of action, I made a dress to go to this cotillion. It was blue, I think, and shimmery, and it fit like a glove and I looked very, very sexy in a non-revealing good-girl kind of way. However, I was terribly self-conscious, and nervous as a caffeinated crack-head. I was so nervous that I forgot to apply the all-important "Secret" before departing for the cotillion, and that sad fact, coupled with the nervousness, started up a stanky flop sweat factory under my arms that became very evident once I took of my "wrap" at the coat check to the ballroom.

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The half-moons of perspiration were of tremendous size. The odor was unmistakeable. The embarrassment was paralyzing. As a result, I spent a good portion of the night in the ladies room, absorbing the cascade of perspiration with toilet paper and wishing I were dead already. I was 17, young, surrounded by youths in uniform, and unable to raise my arms.

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Emotional scarring anyone? It's being served over there in the corner where the blond girl is sitting. But be careful, something smells a little funny over there, so be prepared to get you helping quickly.

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Yeah, I sure could have used whatever those superheros have. Who knows? With THAT kind of protection, I might have caught the eye of some promising young man who would later go on to become an admiral and I would be photographed with him at all sorts of grand parties and would be the smart sassy wife of one of the men short-listed to be the next Vice President.

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All lost, all lost, because I didn't have the secret. Super OR powder-fresh, either one would have been fine.

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Feel free to tell me any of YOUR embarrassing stories.....sweaty or otherwise.