Let the Summer 2006 Footwear Games Begin!

Summer is rapidly approaching here in Washington, D.C., a city built on a swamp. The spring has been beautiful, and I've been spending as much time as possible playing outside and soaking up the sunlight and the songs of the birds. This week, however, the hints of summer humidity began creeping upon us. Soon enough the wet hot blanket of a Washington summer will envelop us ...merciless days when you feel like you're swimming in a steaming bowl of split pea soup. For someone with hyperhidrosis, especially women, the approach of summer brings a footwear dilemma. If you wear sandals, your feet will sweat so much the shoes might fall off. Or at the very least, you'll develop embarrassing sweat stains. And if you don't wear sandals, you're hot and uncomfortable...and if you wear a skirt, you'll need to wear nylons on a 95 degree day. Ick!

Today was the hottest, most humid day of the year to date. Even before I left my apartment, my palms and feet were wet. Though I wanted to go sockless, I wore closed toe shoes and carefully chosen knee-highs--the kind that are dark enough not to show the black stains left when my shoes meet my foot sweat. But light enough not to show the actual sweat. As I write about this, I can see how boring and trite these details might seem. With all the problems in the world...economic injustice, war, poverty, Britney Spears' car seat blues...here I am yapping about the selection of knee-highs. But this is what having hyperhidrosis is all about. You start obsessing over these small things. You know it's ridiculous, but it's hard to stop. You long to wear fashionable, affordable, flattering sandals that obscure the fact you're sweating like a pig. (Editor's note to self: Do pigs really sweat?). We all want to look beautiful, even as we are concerned about more important things, such the folks suffering in Iraq. Unfortunately, the more you obsess over small things such as knee-highs, the less energy you have for the big things.

Like today. I felt a little anxious about my sweaty feet, so for the most part, I kept to myself at the office. The friendly mailroom guy teases me that I'm always glued to my computer. Outside my cubicle, I could hear the glad handling and greetings of a board meeting. Corporate types congenially shaking hands. If I had a camera, I could have taken pictures of them and sold them as corporate clip art. You know, the kind of images displayed in the windows of banks or in motivational newsletters produced by H.R. departments.

The board members--mostly men but a few women--exuded a sense of comfort and "I belong." You've got to have that confident aura in order to rise in the ranks. And the corporate look...Women in red, tailored suits with sensible Hilary Clinton-esque black pumps. Men wearing their armor--black, grey, and navy suits--with comfortable, shiny shoes. I sense that this is not exactly my scene, but I sometimes wonder if I hadn't spent my life avoiding 'exposure' as a sweaty-palmed person (egad!) if I would have felt more comfortable wielding this kind of power.

Actually, the boardroom meetings are one thing I don't mind missing out on. Maybe hyperhidrosis has its benefits?

I've been thinking about the insightful comments that Bob S. made regarding my last post. Which comes first--social anxiety and feeling like an outsider OR sweaty palms? I suppose for me, feeling like an outsider came first. The sweaty palms, which started in junior high, made things worse for me. It started a cycle of sweaty palms and feeling anxious that has been so difficult to make. Maybe it would help to think back on when I first started feeling like a geek.

In kindergarden, I didn't know how to join in or make friends. I was a wild child with messy hair, food spills on my shirt, and dusty shoes. After years of having been ostracized by the mean girl down the street and her two cronies (who were really nice to me when Mean Girl wasn't around), groups of girls terrified me.

Plus, I didn't quite fit in. When we played house, all the girls wanted to play either the mother or the daughter. I always played the family dog. And I enjoyed it!

For Halloween, most of the girls dressed as princesses. I dressed like a horse. I felt glad about this because there was a prize at stake, and there was no way they would give it to a 'plastic princess' in a costume bought at a supermarket. As the parade started, I faced a dilemma: if I walked on all fours like a horse, I'd fall behind. And if I stood up, then I wouldn't be a very convincing horse! So I walked on all fours whinnying and shaking my tail. It was a blast! Suddenly, I looked up. The parade was over. Everyone was way ahead of me, filing back inside the school. I was all alone. I rushed back to the classroom to collect my prize for the best costume. And the winner? One of the plastic princesses.

This was one of the first of many clues that the world did not smile on girls like me. But when I think back on that tomgirl, I smile. I love it that I played a horse in the parade and ran wild in the woods and dug up my own vegetable garden and loved worms and frogs...I want to channel into some of that fearlessness I used to have.

I love the little tomgirl in me so much, even when she's making trouble. (-:

The Attack of the Slimy Shyness!

I'm sitting at my desk, pecking away at my keyboard, when one of my colleagues comes around rounding up people for a good-bye party for another colleague. She seems to be a soft-spoken person. Friendly, cordial, but not outgoing. Nice, but bland. She's from Idaho. Like a plain baked potato. Predictable, comforting.

When I walk in the conference room, 25 people are there chatting in small groups. This is when I panic. Who do I talk to? How do I know where I am welcome? I've worked at this place for two years, but no one seems very warm towards me. I do make an effort to be friendly around the office. What do I do? Am I looking uncomfortable, and is my discomfort translating as unfriendliness? Chances are, no one has even noticed me walk in. Chances are, someone else is as uncomfortable as I am.

Fifteen minutes of speeches about how wonderful she is, how much she will be missed. And how much she will miss all of us. I wonder if I left the organization, would they have a goodbye party for me? Would anyone care? I'd probably get a card signed by people in my division. "Good luck!" And maybe a lunch from my boss. If they held a good-bye party for me like the one they did for my colleague, I'd probably start weeping. When I leave the company, I would really like for that party to happen.

As soon as the cake is served, I take it back to my desk and resume my keyboard-pecking. I can hear the others in the conference room laughing and having fun.

There is hope: I went swing dancing last weekend, and I actually had fun! My boyfriend and I took a lesson at Glen Echo Park in Glen Echo, Md. The lesson was set up so you switched partners every minute. I must have danced with about 40 people in the course of an hour. My hands weren't distressingly sweaty, and I noticed that a few people had sweaty palms, but it was no big deal. It was not the grossest thing in the world. For once I was on the other side...the receiver rather than the giver of sweaty palms. It wasn't bad at all. It helped that the dance took place outdoors under a pavilion and that the weather was cool.

Just when I thought I was over the hump...I had another sweaty palm moment. I had to see a physical therapist about some pain in my arm. She held my arm and hand in various positions as she tested my range of motion. "Why so sweaty?" she said. "I have hyperhidrosis," I replied. "My sweat glands are on their own schedule."

"How long have you had it?" she asked. "Since I was around 12," I said. End of conversation. She continued with the testing.

I sensed the PT might have been a little grossed out, and I must admit that I did feel a little embarrassed. But the appointment went on without incident. This is something I might have avoided in the past out of fear my sweaty palms would be noticed, so the more practice I have doing these kinds of things, the better. Sometimes the palms are sweaty, and sometimes they're not. The less I worry, the less likely they are to sweat. It's a medical condition, and it's also a psychological condition. I can't always control when my palms will sweat or not, but I can control how I view the sweating and myself. As I said before: there is hope.