My Silas is a profusive sweater. I wouldn't be privy to this factoid had he not volunteered the info, and even then, I'd likely not have acknowledged it 'till I witnessed it firsthand (our first rendezvous was at a local park on a typically muggy May morning in Mississippi).
My wife is similarly physiologically-wired relative to perspiration. And her dad was just the same. But, the difference (perhaps) in my wife and Silas' perspiration antics is hers is more often tied to anxiety. In other words, when she experiences anxiety, she sweats profusely. From there, she becomes that much more anxious (due to the embarrassment over the sweating), therefore she just sweats that much more.
It's the sweat cycle. And it is the weirdest thing. Thankfully none of my children inherited this, but I wouldn't be surprised if a few of my grandchildren aren't "blessed" with this supersweatiness.
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When I was in middle-school (back in the '80s), my mother enrolled me in a Shotokan Karate class at the aerobics studio where she worked (bookkeeper). It was a Tuesday / Thursday class, and the exceedingly kind Sensei who instructed us (mostly) tikes was from across town (Clinton). Terry Vandeventer was a reptile scientist, by trade, who no doubt had a big heart for children. I'd never met anyone like him (he drove a beat-up station wagon that more often than not had caged baby alligators in the wayback).
As everyone knows, karateing requires you wear a canvas bathrobe. I have no idea whose idea this was, but it's seemingly universal. Of note was Mr. Vandeventer's Gei (the uniform's official karate moniker) for it always had these disgusting greenish stains underneath his armpits.
And I could never get over that. Yuck. Gross. Ick. It was so bad that I always wished he'd simply use his legs whilst karateing versus his arms or simply just go Gei-topless during our class.
Fast forward to my second boss (post college) who was an architect reared in Vicksburg. This man had purchased shares of a thriving Jackson architecture firm (where I was now employed) early in his career. He resided with his sweet wife in Madison, having designed and built his '70ish abode during the late '80s (he was off by a decade).
I can recall driving out to this house in order to bring him his left-behind-at-the-office briefcase one afternoon after work. Upon my arrival, both he and his sweet wife (at the time) met me under their carport. Unsurprisingly, my bossman had removed his dress shirt prior to my arrival, therefore only his tee shirt remained across his very lean torso. Carl would always brag about the heaping amount of Italian blood within his veins. Hence, he was olived skinned and hairy to boot.
Immediately, I took note of the profuse green / brown staining under the arms of his tee. And I simply wanted to puke. Right there underneath his structurally shifted carport structure. Yuck. Gross. Ick.
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As grown-ass men, our feelings must not be allowed to control us. There's simply too much responsibility we shoulder for our emotions to have that level of free reign. But, our feelings very much matter, and therefore should not be dismissed / minimized.
Everyone knows that our emotions can't be completely trusted at times. For Rob, those seasons have usually been those where I've found myself deeply wounded (traumatized) at the hand of those I genuinely respected / admired.
Nonetheless, whilst certainly taking those inevitable moments into account, it is our duty to harness our feelings in such a way that we can rely on them to assist us (& therefore those we serve) as men.
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A year or so after I graduated ('95) from architecture school at Mississippi State University, I surprisingly found that a number of my colleagues chose too to stay within the Metro Jackson area to find work. Our class was +/-40 in scale, and 12-15 of these were within this group. Of note is the fact that the architecture degree program at MSU is five years with the fifth year occurring within a separate studio in downtown Jackson.
A handful of these (12-15) were far more polished than Rob was (that's not hard to believe, is it?), and much of this was akin to their being older (they'd pursued architecture as a second degree). Of note was the fact that this group had taken it upon themselves to organize a "Young Architects' Forum" that was sort of a sub-association group to the Mississippi AIA (American Institute of Architects) chapter. And this YAF had absolutely taken off, even to the point of gaining some national notoriety. And this was all very cool.
I volunteered some of my time to assist these "go getters" who'd so brilliantly brought this exciting idea to fruition, but what happened soon thereafter, truly put my deodorant to the test.
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I have closely trimmed my armpit hair for as long as I can remember. In fact, this is one of my sweet wife's routine duties for Rob (along with trimming my neck hair). I know for a fact that this habit is tied to the aforementioned gross-out experiences I detailed above.
It's not that I'm against armpit hair. Not at all. I'm just against any semblance of nasty sweat stains being visible on Rob's (or any other western man's) clothing.
It's oppressively hot & humid here in Mississippi more often than not. Our climate is sub-tropical. Therefore, were it not for perspiration, we Mississippians would likely instead be Canadians.
This makes me thankful for sweat. I just don't want to be grossed out / gross anyone out by it (sweating is to be felt but not seen).
I will likely gift each of my pubescent grandsons with rechargeable hair trimmers.
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I attended some sort of "Young Architects' Forum" mini-banquet (at a then uber popular Jackson restaurant) in order to be recognized for my involvement / contributions as a volunteer. Unbeknownst to me, the YAF Board President's intention was to "pass the baton" to Rob immediately following this shindig.
I was clueless until I realized what was being implied during his presentation.
I'm certain my armpits became moist as I sat there eating my chips and salsa. For I felt duped and taken advantage of. Not one word of this had been broadcast to me prior to this evening.
All I knew was that I'd no leadership experience combined with very little interest in sophomoring their group. The current President had made it clear that he was moving away from Jackson and wanted out of the position of President (which he'd put himself within as the author of the org itself 18-months prior).
After the formalities were over and everyone began to disperse from the restaurant, I asked to speak with the board members privately out in the restaurant foyer. And this was the first time, that I can remember as a grown-ass man (age 21 / 22), of Rob tapping into "my gut / instinct" (emotional core) relative to standing up for myself.
And the reaction to what I had to say was not at all respectful / pleasant. In fact, the Board President was so offended by my refusal to go along with his assumptions that his emotions were most definitely allowed free reign. From there, my reputation as a "noteworthy volunteer" changed to one of "unreliable schmuck".
Keep in mind that I did not belay my disgruntled feelings in an asshole-like manner during this intense exchange. I was respectful of his contribution / authority yet also pointed / direct relative to my own point of view regarding this "misunderstanding".
Considering the age difference (me being 3-5 years younger than the board members), I came away quite proud of how I handled myself in contrast to the reaction I received.
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God gave men armpits for good reason. They're wonderful repositories for emotions. Whether they're positive or negative, my advice is to keep them there for safekeeping. This way, they're useful but not intrusive. Controlled but also accessible. Plus, emotions favor warm, moist, and dark. Hence, the armpit is both a conveniently ideal environment.
My only request regarding this approach is that you do your part as a man to keep from grossing anyone out. Even if you have to pay thousands to have your armpit hair lasered away, do us all a favor and get it done. For sometimes, even the most effective antiperspirants simply won't cut the hairy mustard.
For goodness sakes man, think of your clothing! Yuck. Gross. Ick.
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