I hate sweat.

It stains your clothes.

It makes you look like you just got out of the shower.

It makes you feel like you need a shower (another one).

It weighs down your eyelashes.

It makes you want to wipe down your face with a dew rag, and I hate dew rags.

It tickles and distracts you when beads of perspiration form around your neck and zigzag down the entire length of your back then careen down into your crack.

It smells.

It gets into your ears or mouth.

It makes you slippery. It makes you not want to hug people (and hugging is good).

It makes you want to tie your hair back into a pony tail, and hell, even with a pony tail, you can still tell that you’re sweating.

It makes the waistband of your pants feel especially prickly.

It becomes the focal point of your attention even when you have plenty of other things you could pay attention to.

So, this afternoon, it was 90 degrees in the shade kind of hot. My toes were sticking to each other and sticking to the soles of my sandals. I was watching Black Joe and the Honeybears play to a crowd at the Sheffield Garden Walk. The back of my shirt had become a wet magnet. The crowd around me was probably, on average, 20-25 years younger and they didn’t seem to be sweating. (Did I mention the fact that sweat is even more awful when the people around you aren’t getting their share?) I was thinking about how much I hated sweat. Then the slightest of breezes wafted through the stagnant air, spreading out against my back, touching every centimeter of wetness, opening and cooling every over-heated pore.

God, I love sweat!

Having an automatic cooling system is no small thing.