It's that time again.

It's that time where I head out to work and in my very focused New York walk, eyes forward, purposeful step, I left-right-left my way down into the steamy depths of our subway. Usually I arrive at the entrance at exactly six and a half minutes after I left my apartment, at the exact moment my body breaks the seal on my sweat glands.

From that moment forward begins a terrible period where I curse myself for not having slown down and I think "cool thoughts, cool thoughts" while visualizing penguins and ice glaciers. I will my bustline not to break into rivulets of sweat and hope my back isn't sticking to my shirt but I can feel my neck prickling and I press a tissue to my temples to gently blot blot blot my face so as to not disturb my makeup.

I can feel myself sweating through my shirt and it starts to drip down my back, down my stomach, I feel it dripping into my waistband as I pray for the cool air of the subway car, if only it would come before my hair starts to sweat into my ears.

Walking into work 20 minutes later and I try to take the least exposed route, scurrying quickly into the ladies room to shovel handfuls of paper towels down my top, across my stomach and between my boobs, swiping at my neck. Hoping my shirt magically dries before I have to sit down and be seen.

Getting home at night I finally take my bra off to look down and see the entire inside soaked in twin crescents of wetness, extending like a sickly smile along the underwires, mocking me for my otherwise efficient biological cooling system. Perhaps I'm well evolved but it's not doing my self image any favors.

I don't know how men do it in their suit jackets and pants but it's payback for those tiny dresses we wear in the dead of winter, pretending to be warm enough in a light shawl while they declare the temperature "fine" in their full suit jackets and pants. Suck it fellas, now it's your turn to suffer.