The old Brooklyn buildings are sliding by as I stand, hand wrapped around the subway pole overhead, becoming increasingly aware of how many layers of clothing I donned before leaving my apartment this morning. The snow melts as it makes contact with the subway car’s windows, rolling down at the same pace as the condensation that has begun to collect on the inside. Beads of sweat form on my chest and follow suit, almost tickling as they pass my breasts and head toward my navel. Maybe that last wool sweater cardigan was just a step too far, considering the three layers under it, wool coat on top and two scarves I added to the mix. As much as I hate being cold, being too warm feels ever so much worse. There’s no efficient way to layer when moving between the snowy outdoors and an exceptionally full public transit system.
I fear summer already, the wet heat that will lead to a constant awareness that I am sweating. Already I can envision myself traveling to and from every location necessary to that day’s agenda with visible wet spots on my clothes; lower back, under my breasts and both arms, maybe at the back of the neck of my shirt. I feel negatively about things like tank tops, shorts and skirts–bare skin requires sunscreen and attracts the city grime too easily. The odds of suffering heat exhaustion by July are high, my friends. There’s no winning in the self-inflicted sweaty hell that is sweater season.