SWEAT GIRL!

Revisiting the embarrassing and hilarious moments of my sweaty teenage past.

This essay reflects the author's recollection of events. Some names, locations, and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of those depicted.

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“Hey, sweat girl.” 

I heard a voice coming from the hot open baseball field but chose to ignore it. My best friend Whitney and I were (probably) discussing which Backstreet Boy we wanted to marry or some ridiculous catfight we saw on MTV's The Real World. We couldn't be distracted by background noise; the gym was our social hour.

“Oh, sweat girl…” 

We continued chatting and laughing. 

“Sweat girl!” 

I stopped speaking mid-sentence and felt the eerie chill of silence follow. My neck tingled and the hair on my arms stood at attention as if everyone was looking right at me. I turned my head to see what was going on and found Willow’s eyes locked on mine. 

Willow, a red-headed junior to my freshman, was known for having few friends and a holier-than-thou attitude. She was tall, lanky, and had deep freckles that covered most of her face. We not only shared gym class but another class I can’t recall now. (It’s been well over twenty years.) We were playing softball, a sport I not only loath but, quite frankly, suck at.  

Through her smirk-filled grin, Willow taunted, “Aren’t you going to play, sweat girl?” and motioned for me to take my turn up to bat. 

As everyone began to laugh, I wondered why she would say something like that. Then I felt it. A light breeze brought my attention to a strange wetness coming from under my right armpit. I looked down and saw a dark spot under the right sleeve of my adorable 90s gray baby tee. I froze. 

Panic quickly infiltrated my body as I felt sweat travel down my back. Suddenly, it felt a hundred degrees warmer. I searched for something smart-assy to say back, but wit failed me. Finally, through shaking teeth, I fired back, “Shut up, Willow!”  

Willow and I stared at one another with eyes half-closed in an uncomfortable glare for what seemed like an eternity. I heard about the hazing the upperclassmen did to the incoming freshman, but I made it ¾ of the way through the year without any issues. I thought I was in the clear, but apparently, my time was up. Willow’s stance exuded power and a bitchiness that I had not yet experienced in real life. It felt like a scene from a teen movie.  Like, when Tai attacked Cher in Clueless. Only I was the virgin who couldn’t drive and who also happened to be perspiring all over the school bench.

Before either one of us could say anything else, the period bell rang, and the class dispersed quickly to the locker room. I, truly, was saved by the bell.  

I didn’t bloom as early as the other girls in my class, or so it seemed. My period started right before my freshman year of high school, and instead of blessing me with a Baywatch chest, it brought along something else entirely – excessive sweating. But – weirdly, under just one arm. So at the beginning of my sophomore year, during my yearly physical, I brought it up.  

At first, my doctor seemed uninterested in helping out a teen girl with her latest insecurity, but it took only a few minutes of rambling for him to really pay attention. He believed my hormones would “self-correct in time.” Blah, blah – some nonsense about post-puberty and how he thought I would “return to normal soon.”

Despite his passive confidence, I wasn’t convinced. I could feel tears welling in my eyes, the sigh of frustration and desperation ready to escape my lips. He must have sensed this too because he motioned to speak. 

“Tell you what...” He clasped his hands together. “I’ll get you a prescription for Drysol. It’s a special deodorant for situations like this. I’m not sure if it will work, but we can try.” 

“That would be great!” 

As time went on and my hormones did not correct, nor did the fancy deodorant help, I had to go MacGyver on my situation. I discovered new ways of how to navigate my sweaty problem. I no longer bought or wore certain colored clothes like gray, red, or blue. I learned that the looser a shirt was in the armpit region, the better. Jackets and cardigans became my best friends (thank you, Britney Spears and JawBreaker, for that comeback). I did everything I could to avoid another accident, fearful of another Willow-esque comment, but was often reminded that most things were out of my control. 

On the night of my junior prom, I felt like Scarlett O’Hara from Gone with the Wind, one of my favorite films at the time. My mom and I had spent months with a family friend creating a dress that was reminiscent of one she wore in the film. My dress was a beautiful green fabric with floral inserts, a hooped skirt, and thick, ribboned sleeves. And I was thrilled that my high-school sweetheart, Andrew, coordinated his tux to match.  

That afternoon, I got ready at my friend Ann’s house. Ann wasn’t just a close friend but also happened to be dating the brother of my boyfriend. The four of us were very close and did practically everything together. While getting ready, Ann and I blasted Pink, Britney, and Toya from the boombox in the bathroom. Occasionally, we would recalculate how much time we had to do our hair and makeup and put on our dresses before our boyfriends arrived, and my mom who was taking our photos. 

When I decided that it was time to finally put on my dress, Ann zipped me in, and I felt like a goddamn princess. I began twirling down the hallway screeching, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I did give a damn.

A dark spot had emerged under my right armpit, plaguing my existence and now, my beautiful prom dress. Willow’s voice suddenly crept into the back of my mind, ‘Hey, sweat girl!’ and I started to freak out. 

Mid-hyperventilation, while hiding in Ann’s bedroom, Andrew and his brother arrived. Ann made an excuse about how I was still getting ready and for them to “hang tight.” Shortly after, my mom arrived and knocked on Ann’s bedroom door.

"Can I come in?” She slowly opened the door, and with just one look at my wet face she yelled, “What’s wrong?”

Through mumbled words and tears, I quietly exclaimed, “I don’t think I can do this – look!” I motioned to my armpit, “You can see it! Mom, everyone’s going to see it!” 

My mom, who can easily become flustered, began her attempt to bring me down from my version of WWIII. “Let me see if I have anything,” and began to rummage through her large purse.  

To this day, I swear that my mom’s purse weighs at least three hundred pounds. I continuously remind her that her back issues probably stem from carrying around a continent. But on this day, I decided not to say anything. I watched her pull random items from her purse onto the bed and remember thinking, if anyone’s going to help me, it’s going to be Mary Poppins over there.  

When my mother’s hand emerged from the purse holding a thick sanitary pad like it was a white flag being drawn onto the battlefield, I let out an audible sigh of disgust. “A pad? Are you freaking kidding me?”   

“No. I can sew it into the armpit of the dress. No one will know.” 

I didn’t know what to say to her. She looked and sounded pretty convincing. I tried to come up with every scenario in my head on how many ways this could result in a Carrie prom moment, but I had nothing. I had no other options.

 “Alright, let's do this.”  I caved.

For some reason, my mom also had a needle and thread in her bag. I didn’t question it. I still don’t because that woman was right—it did work! And I had an incredible night. Just me, Andrew, and my sweaty, padded armpit.  

I’d like to say that things got drier from that point on, but they didn’t. After my little prom incident, I reluctantly found myself back in Sweat Ville when I purchased a purple metallic ribbed crop top from one of those popular late ‘90s clothing stores that didn’t make it past 2005. 

When I bought the shirt, I was so infatuated with it that I didn’t even consider what would happen—sweat-wise—while wearing it. I didn’t care. I wanted to look cool, show off my awesome abs, and have my boyfriend ogle me.

Days later, I decided to wear it for me and Andrew’s date night. As I began to admire my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I saw it—sweat! “Shit!”

Tears began to well, and I felt the air escape my lungs as I had just been kicked in the chest. I began digging underneath the sink for something to help. When I found a sanitary pad, I ripped the plastic off and placed it tightly under my armpit, hoping it would help just like it did at prom, but it felt funny. I looked in the mirror and felt immediately defeated. It was noticeable. Very noticeable. Not in a—that chick has a pad under her arm, kind of way, but in a—something is really odd here, kind of way. Like, why is that girl's pit bigger than the other one? 

I was ready to call it, find something else to wear, and mourn the shirt I’d bought and would never wear, but then I noticed the paper towels sitting on the counter. Aha!

Later that night, while eating at our favorite Italian restaurant, I remember feeling grateful that my quick fix worked and Andrew had no idea. When we arrived back at Andrew’s, we were excited to see that his parents weren’t home from church yet and decided to hang out a bit longer. But “hanging out” led to sucking face, as usual. 

Mid-making out, I somehow ended up on the dining room table, not thinking about the paper towel tucked strategically under my right arm. I was lost in the feeling of Andrew’s lips against mine. His hands wrapped my waist, pulling my body closer to his. I lifted my legs and pretzeled them around his, tightly, while his cold fingers began to caress my upper stomach. His light touch sent chills down my spine and I was completely lost in the moment. It wasn’t until I felt the paper towel being slowly pulled from its cavern that I realized what was happening.   

“What is this?” he asked, holding the paper towel just outside my shirt. 

My first instinct was to create a Felicia-sized hole through his living room wall, then drown myself in his ditch, but being the quick thinker I am, I grabbed the remains of the pit-stained towel from his hand. 

“Oh, this! This is just the lining of my shirt. It’s been falling apart all day—it even happened to the other side, earlier. Bummer!” I quickly jumped off the table and tucked the pieces of my lie into my purse. I was mortified, made an excuse to leave, and bee-lined it for my grandmother’s just up the road.  

When I arrived, soaked in shame, I ran into her arms. Through hyperventilation-induced tears, I told her what happened: “Grandma, it was so embarrassing! He probably thinks I stuff my bra with paper towels!” (Why I thought my boob and my armpit were connected is beyond me.) “What if he dumps me because he thinks I’m a stuffer?”

My grandma, who remained completely nonjudgmental and amazing, conveyed that the best thing I could do was tell Andrew the truth. It only took a few hours of convincing, but eventually, I did call him, and in true Andrew fashion, he handled the situation super cool, and we never talked about it again.

The second and last time Willow ever called me sweat girl, we were having a research day in the school library. Maybe it was for my social sciences class or math, or something. I honestly can’t remember. What I do recall is that a group of us was sitting at one of the large tables surrounded by books when she decided to join us. I did my best to ignore Willow, but it was obvious through her side-eye glances that she was up to something.

Mid-conversation with my group, Willow interrupted me, “Don’t listen to her; she’s sweat girl.” 

I looked at the others waiting to see if anyone would react. I could tell that some of them didn’t know what to do, sitting quietly while the others started to laugh and snicker behind their books. I looked back at Willow and recognized the sinister smile from before. 

 “Why do you sweat so much? Something must be wrong with you, sweat girl!”

 I tried my best to ignore her. I gave her a dirty look and thought about walking away, but it only took, maybe, ten more seconds for my temper to kick in. 

“Shut your mouth, Willow, before I shut it for you!” 

And you know what? She did shut her mouth. She never said anything to me, ever again.

Sometime around the end of school and the beginning of college—just as my doctor predicted—my hormones did, in fact, correct. It was the gradual realization that I was no longer over-sweating, and my clothes were no longer the victim of such a wet demise. 

Recently, I learned that there was an actual word for my condition. Primary focal hyperhidrosis is an excessive sweating disorder. According to the Stanford Health Center, “It's normal for teenagers to sweat more than they did when they were younger. A teen’s sweat glands are growing along with the rest of his or her body,” and this condition is ultimately due to an increase of growth hormones. (Stanford Health) Today, more options exist to treat this condition than when I was young. Some treatments include having Botox injected into the region, various medications, and even the use of electrical currents on the skin's surface. (CHOC, 1) However, the downside is that it can return around the time of menopause. At least, if that happens, I now have treatment options and a better sense of humor. 

Since revisiting my sweaty past, I can’t help but wonder, if I ran into Willow today, what would I do? Would I acknowledge her or walk away? What would she recall or remember from this time, if anything? Our two interactions—although small—made a huge impact on my self-esteem, but maybe for her, they meant nothing. Maybe she was bullied and was looking for a way to regain power, and I was an easy target. Or maybe she was just a mean girl looking for someone to destroy. Whatever the case, I hope that she’s evolved since then.  

It's hard to not feel what I felt then, now. When I examine my childhood journals, I am instantly taken back to that period and can feel the shiver of shame and embarrassment wash over me. In retrospect, I recognize the reason why these sweaty moments seemed so much bigger than they were. In my small, teenage world, I hadn’t had many life experiences yet. I had no way to measure my feelings or the wisdom to see these moments as basic human experiences.

As teenagers, all we want is to belong. Any small disturbance in our quest for perfection can feel like the end of the world. The beauty of getting older is when you’re able to look at your experiences—all of them—and realize that it's our (sometimes) most painful moments that shape us. And everyone sweats, even if I did just a little more than others. (I’m just grateful that I smelled fucking delightful because there is no way I would have survived as the sweaty, smelly girl.)

More than twenty years later, I still feel the need to triple-check the mirror when I leave the house. I’m feel afraid of wearing certain types of clothes, but I no longer feel the embarrassment or pain connected to these experiences. Especially now, as I’m post-hysterectomy with menopause looming just around the corner.

Honestly, if I saw Willow today, I would probably walk up to her confidently and say, “Hey, Willow! Not sure if you remember me. I’m Felicia “Sweat Girl” Sabartinelli.” Just to see her reaction.