I’m melting….on a slippery slope of salty nipples

At the risk of oversharing, when I perform, there is often a lot of sweat generated. Not James Brown sweat, but more sweat than is sociably acceptable. I am programmed to give 110%. A mere 99 and a half won’t do, as the great Wilson Pickett sang.

I have ruined many a shirt, have even soaked right through the jacket.

One suit was sent to the dry cleaners, and they couldn’t get the sweat stains out. They were barely perceptible but still, I saw. I wept. Which caused more stains. I took the suit back to the cleaner. Pointed out the sweat shadows. Aaah, she said. I can get those out, and she did. At great expense I must add, but as my mother-in-law used to say, “You must suffer to be beautiful.”

Yes, she actually said that. It may have been related to squeezing feet into shoes that did not fit. Oh, the origami of women’s feet, forced into confections of leather and Designs by Devil. As a result, there are very few women that I know with beautiful feet. I have beautiful feet. Women comment on them. You should be a “foot model”.

It is hot today. It has been hot for the past few days. After whingeing about the crappy, wet summer for months, my fellow citizens now complain about the weather. We are having a heat wave, not to be mistaken for a heat dome, or the Teapot Dome scandal, or a pair of sandals, although that would be a good idea, if I had a pair of sandals that I wasn’t embarrassed to wear.

I once had a pair of black Italian sandals that were perfect. Now, I only have some poolside slip-ones that slide to the opposite direction of my feet. That, and a pair of what I will generously describe as Hobbit sandals. They are butt-ugly, to be honest.

To be honest. Such a strange phrase. As if, all the rest of the time I am dishonest. Let me be honest. Yes, let me. For a change. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Going without pants is not such a bad idea. What if I were to go to work with no pants and butt-ugly Hobbit sandals…..what would happen? Would I be sent home? Please. PLEASE!!!

Like the time I stayed over at a friends after seeing a concert. I was in my twenties. I was working in a bank. I borrowed his white shirt, which had a collar, to be fair. It was also see- through. My manager called me into his office and told me to go to The Bay and buy an appropriate shirt for work. One that did not display my nipples. Yes, there was a dress code. No nipples. No public display of nipples. The male audiotape should not be seen! Audiotape was not what I wrote, but was just “autocorrected”, from Areola. The male areola must not be heard, just as the audiotape should not be seen.

Another by-product of stage sweat is the burning nipples. I kid you not. The shirt is soaked through. The jacket is so wet it could be wrung, then hung. The tie is plastered to the chest, just as wearer of said tie is also plastered to the gills.

Then the salty nipple rises, goes into the red, just like the meters on the soundboard.

Oh the pain and indignity of the salty nipple. Sounds like a cocktail. I can’t find it for you on the internet. I will have to invent one. Today we will have to settle for a Slippery Nipple. “A Slippery Nipple cocktail is made with three main components, layered in just the right way: Sweet grenadine on the bottom, Sambuca (anise-flavored liqueur) in the middle, and Irish cream on top.”