It started on a chili day last October, a mere six months after I turned fifty. I was wearing my favorite royal blue long sleeved polyester blend blouse. One of the few that I can wear without my boobs pulling on the buttons and showing the entire office the girls. Which, by the way, look more like a couple of deployed air bags than breasts these days, but I don’t want to talk about it.
Anyway, did you know I have a closet in my house designated for clothes that used to fit me? Well, kind of designated. They hang among my child’s First Christmas dress with dried up mystery spit-up from 1998 and my wedding dress that bears a twenty-five year old champagne stain where my lap would be if I tried it on. If I could get it on, which I can’t. But that’s a story for another time.
What I plan on doing with these old clothes that used to fit is a mystery. Stay tuned on that one. Although it may be a long wait.
I’m sitting in my chair at my desk at work. The chair that I determined is going to be my demise. The new thing now is if you sit for too long, you will take literal years off your life. At this rate, I should be dead by next Tuesday.
Where was I? Oh, right…my death chair. I feel wetness under my right arm. I’m not talking about a slight dampness, I’m talking there is a straight up flood. If sweat didn’t contain so much salt and, well, come from our body, I’m pretty sure I could ease the thirst of every person in the Western Hemisphere just based on the wetness factor.
I look down slowly. And I mean slowly. Because I am terrified by what I will see. If I feel a flood, surely there IS a flood.
Lo and behold, peeking out from where my arm creases, I see dark blue. Not the bright blue my shirt was intended to be. No. This blue is sinister. A Sinister Blue.
Except we aren’t in Crayola Land.
I knew something was wrong. Terribly, awfully wrong.
Without lifting my arm, I proceed to my very stylish and beautifully put together co-worker on the other side of the wall that we share.
“Hey, umm, Andrea, do I have a sweaty pit?” And proceed to lift my right arm. Andrea throws both her hands to her mouth and gasps. I can almost hear all the heads collectively turning in my direction.
“Is it really that bad?” I ask her. I’m thinking I may have to get the defibrillator hanging in the hallway two floors down because she is unmoving. Finally, she comes to and verifies what I feared the most.
And this is how it has been every single day since. A constant battle to try to stop The Flood from seeping out of the hollow of the darkest recesses of my arms.
Me and the deodorant aisle at the local grocery store are now intimately involved. Although the aisle has since failed me because I have tried every scent, strength, and brand. I have even crossed over to the men’s section. How is it that it’s strong enough for a man, but not for a women going through menopause? Certainly a man can handle that.
Hmm, maybe not. Please refer to the “Man Cold.”
So, what do I do? Enter Amazon and dress shields. And this is how it goes down:
Day One: Stuck to my arm in the wrong place missing exactly where it needed to be and defeating the whole purpose.
Day Two: I stuck two of them in the pit of my shirt but there was a fight and they wound up in a blood bath in the bathroom trash bin by noon.
Day Three: Umm, let’s just say that nothing says, “I wear sanitary napkins in my armpits” better than when one is sticking out and tickling your chin.
Needless to say, after “wearing” these for a week, I gave up. I’m not sure how they have a 4-star rating. I’m guessing people use them for things other than their intended use. Like maybe to care for a wound, or blot the grease off a face. Or yes, even as a sanitary napkin.
How have I remedied this situation? I wear dark colored shirts. Dark as in black. The blue shirt is now collecting dust in the closet with my clothes that no longer fit. I wear cardigans over my shirts to hide whatever may still get through. Because it gets through. A steel trap can’t keep the moisture at bay.
And I don’t lift my arms. Tripling up on three different deodorants is now part of my morning ritual. Does it work? Well, no, of course not. Hence, the reason for this post.
All I can say is, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
Join who, exactly? I’m not sure, but I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out. In the meantime? If you see a woman in the fetal position on the floor of the deodorant aisle, keep on walking. It’s just me.