Dear Heat and Humidity,

We need to talk.  Right now I’m sitting perfectly still in front of a fan, and guess what?  I’m sweating like a fat man at an Indian restaurant.  I’m not generally a sweaty person.  In fact, my distorted self-image often conceives of itself as having transcended sweat.  If I were giving a fake name like “Mega T. Ron” to the hostess at Red Lobster, I wouldn’t break a sweat.  Sometimes when I go to the gym and get on the running-in-place-from-your-invisible-worst-enemies machine, I hardly break a sweat.  When I steal strange, overpriced, fermented drinks with floaty chunks in them from Whole Foods, I’m cool as a cucumber.  So how come right now, as I sit here, doing practically nothing except moving my fingers, am I sweating?  

Heat and humidity, your unholy alliance is an insult to benignly inactive people the world over.  I feel a good sweat should be earned, from things like lying to your loved ones, or cheating on your taxes, or voting republican.

I challenge you to a bout of mortal combat.  Untangle yourselves heat and humidity, and fight like a man.  Like a really small, lazy man.  Only then will I totally crush you with my half-assed muscles.  

Sweatily yours,

Cindy