sweatin' to the oldies

So here's the thing - I'm genetically set up to sweat. If I sit in a refrigerator and think about walking down the street in the middle of summer, the hot black top throwing heat waves at me while the sun simultaneously does its thing, I will sweat. I don't require actual heat, just the thought of heat.

So I'm having real issues with Hong Kong, I'm not going to lie. I don't know if I so much mind the fact that my entire body glistens after about ten minutes, so much as I'm totally embarassed by it. In Japan, I could walk out the apartment door with my hair in six ponytails, two different shoes, and a dress on backwards, and no one would give me a second glance. (Now, this is because they're polite and they've perfected the art of the quick glance - no glance back.) However, the staring is eternal here. So not only do I stand out because I'm a giant and I have blue eyes, but this whole dripping factor is really kind of getting some attention.

I've tried working out outside. That lasts all of 15-20 minutes. Plus, I'm pretty sure I'm breathing in cancerous air. So I made the trek to the West Campus, which houses the athletic facilities - it was a 20 minute trek full of glistening glory - to ask if I could somehow use a treadmill for a month. I explained the situation, and the response was, "Maybe."

AWESOME.

She gave me a number to call to see if I could. (Seriously? I'll give you my first born child. I just want your treadmill for a half hour!) And then during the trek back, when my dangly earrings started adhering themselves to my sticky neck, I decided that maybe the journey to the fitness facility wasn't even worth it.

So Mom, I'm writing to let you know that I give up. I give up trying to have any sort of exercise routine that resembles the one I love. For the next four weeks, I give up trying to maintain any form of the life that I once had. And I'm going to use your dang exercise DVDs. I'm going to look like a big, fat (quite literally) fool, dancing and kicking around this miniature room. Because I'm not sure how much more humid exercise this body can handle before it literally combusts into a frenetic fit of sweaty seizures. Kicking and screaming will be involved, and the words, "Book my flight NOW!" are likely to escape my lips before I then slip into a heat-induced coma. So before any of that happens, I'm going to give Billy Blanks one more try, and try and stay sane for just a few more days.

So there Mom. You win.

(And thank you for having the wisdom and foresight that I lack in purchasing me exercise on a disc because you love me and know me well enough to foresee something akin to a mental breakdown should I be barred from an exercise routine. I like you. :) )