The Longest Flight of My Life

I am in my early thirties and sweat has consumed my life.  It began when I was twenty.  As I boarded a plane to study abroad, I thought this was a new chapter in my academic career.  I did not know that, upon boarding, I’d be entering a new phase of lifecharacterized by a symptom most people never really even think about (SWEATING) – which has been incessant and ongoing since.

Once on the plane, I noticed I was sweating more than usual.

“Perhaps the plane is too hot,” were my initial thoughts.

Prior to this trip I had sweat.  Everyone has.  I grew up playing sports.  I ran.  I played soccer.  In fact, as a young athlete my dad often wondered why I didn’t sweat MORE when I played.  Funny how things work out.

My first memories of abnormal sweating come from college.  I went to a large university and, for the first time in my life, began noticing sweat marks on my shirt.  The problem, however, never became overwhelming.  Instead, I just thought that the sweat marks were a result of the long walk to class and the heavy backpack I wore.  It seemed logical enough and, aside from a couple remarks from friends that I recall, it was not really an issue in my life.

Getting on that plane changed everything.  To my surprise and discomfort, when we landed and got off the plane, my armpits were all wet!  I threw on a sweatshirt (no pun intended) to hide the my armpits and perhaps my confusion, figuring things would go back to the way they ALWAYS had been now that I was off the plane.  Clearly, that was not in the cards.

I was introduced to my roommate and began meeting the rest of the students on the trip.  The sweating wouldn’t stop.  The entire day.  The next as well.

“Is it like hot, or humid or something in this country?” I asked my roommate.

“No more so than home…But I’m from Florida ,” was his answer.

So it wasn’t the plane.  And it wasn’t this country.   What the F*#@ was going on?  I was blindsided by this turn of events, and all alone in a foreign country.  For three days I was incessantly sweating and scurrying to hide my newfound “Scarlet Letter.”

Eventually, I approached one of the trip organizers.  He was from that country.  Nope, it wasn’t the country.  And it wasn’t the plane.  “Maybe you should see a psychologist,” he suggested.

I stayed there for the duration of the trip.  It was five months that lasted forty-five years.  It was marred by confusion, suffering, pretending nothing was wrong to all these strangers while panicking and panicking and panicking inside.

I did not confide in anyone on the trip with me.  This was too personal, and they weren’t close enough friends.  I imagine many of them thought I was antisocial for avoiding parties and gatherings.  When I did socialize (and I forced myself to do so often), all I could think about was hiding my sweat and I’m sure I came off disinterested or simply like a dick to many of the people I met at the time.  Others probably thought I was just a weirdo who always wore a jacket, whether warranted or not.

My memories of the trip are vivid.  I don’t remember the sights.  Lord knows, I saw many-a-gorgeous church.  I went to some of the most prestigious museums in the world.  But they don’t stick out.  What sticks out is an image of me, lying on the cold marble floor of my apartment in the middle of the night, bawling with confusion and talking about this problem with my dad in the States – half a world away – where it was the middle of the day, and where I had left my youthful ignorance behind.

“Should I go home, or stay?”  It was a big decision.  My dad thought I should “tough it out,” and that’s exactly what I did.  But we talked more or less every day.  And every conversation we’d discuss my ailment.  And most conversations I’d tear up or cry, outright like a baby.

He sent over a special deodorant from the U.S.  A hail mary!  It worked!!  Praise be God!  For three days…then my armpits turned a bright pinkish red and stung like they’d been wet-towel whipped.  As much as I appreciated not sweating, I couldn’t keep using that deodorant.

And so I battled on.  Confused and suffering but proud of myself for not giving up.  I bought new shirts and overcoats and hoped against hope that this trip was the cause of the sweating.  That when I returned to the States, I’d return to normal.  But I’m still waiting.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s