When I was younger I looked in awe at my fathers sweating, as if by sweating so much that your entire teeshirt was rendered unwearable, like he had bathed in a warm salty ocean of sweat while fully clothed and had emerged with the clothes stretched taught and sodden over his body, was something like the pinnacle of masculinity. I think in this, my twelve year old mind was wrong. Now that I am also a sweating man I am vaguely disappointed that my sweat doesn't match up to my father, his shadow casting long and forebodingly over my self worth or something. Not that sweating profusely is a good thing, any more than not sweating and having a "dry sweat" which I presume exists is recommended. Imagine lacking body odour or sweat and how much better life would be, like that novel "Perfume" which my brother, also a sweater, was crazy about. Imagine the sense of superiority, the innate purity of your life.
Coming off the squash court, my father, like many men of his generation, was a man in control of the court but not his sweat. I pale in comparison. I sweat, but it lacks the heavy intensity of my fathers. I don't lose sleep over it, but I do dream that I am a pro basketballer.1
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1. Madeleine suggested that this all seemed really homoerotic/homopaternoerotic. I don't have any response. Won't stoop to dignify that with a response.2
2. If I did it would be "I ran the 1500m for the West side of Christchurch and sweated for my city."
