Rash ThoughtsI am not built for warm climates. First of all I am fat. Not that I am morbidly obese, despite what a few of my childhood chums might say. But I do carry the middle-aged spare tire and have for some time. I suppose had I been born in a different era and to a different gender I might charitably be described as Rubenesque. In the twenty-first century I am simply another puffy white guy. Providing some buffer from the chill, this excess weight serves me well in temperate zones, but I am poorly adapted for the tropics. I tend to sweat. In humid weather I ooze. It's not just the standard wet armpits. Unless the ambient environment is dry I have an all over lubrication. My forehead maintains a permenent sheen; my socks become sodden shortly after pulling them on; the collar of my t-shirt soaks through just sitting; and worst of all I am a back sweater. From the nape of my neck to the backs of my knees I drip. I have a perpetual skunk-trail only partially hidden by the length of my pony tail. I am a butt-sweater. There I've said it. Putting it in words for all to hear. Aknowledging the problem is the first step on the road to recovery. If only it were that easy. My affliction is not new. I have lived like this for many years. From the time I neared adolescence my sweats have troubled me annually. The first truly hot days of summer bring with them the pleasures of long evenings and iced drinks and the pesters of a minor heat rash. Usually this is merely some sweat blisters in the webbing of my ring fingers. Although sometimes my ever damp boxers lead to a chaffing of the groin. It is rarely more than a minor nuisance that lasts but a few days. Like the litter of the tree buds that collect on the porch and are tracked through the house it is simply a sign of the seasons passing. But when we arrived in Asia my body was unprepared. Being September it was expecting cooler times ahead, not the tropical assault whose pickets probed us on the gangway getting off the plane, and whose legions met us full force as the glass doors slid open at the airport exit. My body simply capitulated. Wilting in the face of the enemy it fell upon its sword and died. And like all deceased animal matter it quickly turned to decay. I have been rotting in Asia. Within the first two days the sweat blisters appeared; charging across the full span of my knuckles and leaving them scarred and raw when I could no longer resist the urge to scratch. Quickly the jungle rot fortified its position and sent forays to other parts of my body. Heat rash appeared along the backs of my hands, in the joints of my elbows and behind my knees. It found high and secure ground across my belt line, where the tops of my thighs meet, and the slack flesh of my crotch. I applied talc, cortisone creams, compresses hot and cold, chewed benadryl and changed my clothes thrice daily. Cold showers, swimming pools, nothing helped. After two weeks I could stand it no more. Prone and spread-eagled on the bed of an overly air conditioned room brought some solace but even that was fleeting. Life simply cannot be lived in stasis. Finally three days of crisp mountain air in Sa Pa, followed by four of unseasonably cool weather in Ha Noi have forced the infidels from the field of battle. I am no longer host to the hordes of prickly heat. But this morning the lake was still, the air heavy and humid; today has turned hot and hazy; and I live in fear that the barbarians are once more at the gate. |
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