Entries from August 2006 ↓

I read a story in USA Today yesterday (actually “story” is too big a word, this was more of a blurb buried in the margins) about a series of explosions that occurred inside a bomb recycling plant in Louisiana this week. Okay, first of all, in this spectacle-fueled society, why was that one not all over the front page? People live for stories with explosions. Especially ones that occur right in our own back yard.

Second of all, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as bomb recycling plants in this county. I didn’t know there was such a thing as bomb recycling. Exactly what kinds of bombs do these people recycle and what, pray tell, do they make with the leftover components? Firecrackers? Presto logs? Cap guns? Apparently this plant recycles old military bombs. I assume we’re not talking about nukes here, but are they the kind that look like old cannon balls with fuses on them? Are these like plastic explosives? …and if so, which number is printed inside the little triangle on the bottom?

But more to the point, who signs up for this particular job? What are the qualifications one needs to recycle bombs? What sorts of interests and aptitudes would a high school student need to demonstrate for a guidance counselor to point him down the road of bomb recycling? And what kind of salary would you need to pull down before you agreed to something like this? Oh I’m sure they have safety guidelines in place at this recycling plant, but dang, a place like that is (forgive the unfortunate turn of phrase) a ticking timebomb… which they probably refurbish into a watch or something before the timer goes to zero.

But the thing that is really… REALLY funny about this story—the explosions forced police to evacuate two schools in the area.

Seriously… no I mean seriously… WHO BUILDS A BOMB RECYLING PLANT NEAR A FREAKIN’ SCHOOL?

I always felt inferior to my friends in elementary school because I could never sweat adequately. We all played sports, and sweating was considered a sign of athleticism and studliness. I’m not sure why really. I guess we needed something to separate the men from the boys and we were all too short to slam-dunk. We’d be outside playing basketball in late March and already the other guys’ faces looked like glasses of iced tea on a hot day. They’d pivot, flipping their heads to the side, and the sweat would fling in all directions. Awesome. Meanwhile, I’d be playing Little League in the dead heat of July and my brow would just be starting to dampen—and I was a catcher.

I’ll never forget the day I finally became a man. I was at basketball camp in the sweltering hundred-percent humidity of August with about a hundred other boys. We were being coached by a dozen middle-aged men who had never forgiven themselves for missing that final shot at the buzzer twenty years earlier, and they were serving out their self-imposed penance by making the rest of us run laps to the point of stroke. After about my hundredth suicide sprint of the afternoon, I was hunched over trying to convince myself that the backboard was not in fact melting, when I felt what I thought was a fly crawling down my face. I waved my hand at it, but it didn’t fly away. Despite the fact that my heart was beating hard enough to pop the blisters on my feet, I smiled letting the solitary bead roll all the way down to my jaw, refusing to wipe it away. I came in first on every training circuit they threw at us that afternoon.

Any of a thousand childhood clichés could have been thrown at me that afternoon: “be careful what you wish for enjoy it while it lasts don’t be in such a hurry to grow up if you keep doing that it’ll make you go blind…” How I long for the days when I couldn’t muster up enough sweat to warrant even a Kleenex. Now I find myself soaking through jeans and multiple t-shirts on any given day in February. It doesn’t take much. All I have to do is walk to the car in the morning and realize I forgot my cell phone. Halfway up the six steps to my apartment and the entire area beneath my backpack is already sticking to my skin.

Five years ago I thought baby powder was something you only used on, you know… babies. These days I have to walk around like Pigpen’s twin brother just to absorb enough moisture to prevent yellow belly button stains from forming on my shirt. It seems pointless to take even lukewarm showers anymore. Standing in a room with that much humidity pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the day. Towels become useless. Undershirts only provide a temporary shield. I stand in front of the fan for fifteen minutes in the vain hope that the Law of Evaporation will somehow combat the Law of the Sweaty Sweatball. And that law states: The volume of sweat emitted shall be directly proportional to the energy expressed attempting to remain dry.

Summer’s the worst, though not because of the higher temperatures. Apparently it’s also a really fun time for people I know to get married. That means getting all dressed up in pants, long-sleeve shirts and jackets at a time when light colors (read: “colors that cannot conceal armpit stains”) are in style. All I can do is try to stand perfectly still so that there is always a good half-inch between my skin and any fabric. I finally started driving to weddings in just my boxer shorts with the A/C on full blast. I get dressed in the parking lot then refuse to sit down in my khaki pants all day long.

I don’t get it. I thought only fat people had this problem. I’ve been trying to get up to my target weight since puberty—which began, coincidentally, that summer at basketball camp. And the worst part is that it’s now become a hereditary issue. My one-year-old daughter is a fit and trim twenty pounds and already she sweats when she eats. Her beautiful shiny red hair becomes a brown matted mess an hour after her bath. Poor kid. I really hope this makes her the envy of all her friends in sixth-grade, but somehow I don’t think girls have the same priorities as boys.