Writing

In Which Your Humble Monkey Loses a Battle to the Sweat Monster

After the winter we had this year, with all of the snowfall and the freezing and the ice dams and the transportation hassles, your Monkey would be of poor character to start complaining about the recent hot and humid weather that has plauged the Boston area.

But here goes….

What’s with this heat, anyway, am I right? I mean seriously. By seven in the morning your Monkey has already worked up a full sweat. By eight he is on the verge of heat stroke, and by 9 am most days he is fully engulfed in flames! By 10 am it’s a g-damn nuclear inferno and by noon a white dwarf star has formed in his cubicle.

For the love of all that is holy, how about some relief?

Ok, perhaps your Monkey is being a tad overdramatic. It’s a little warm and a little humid, but it’s not even at “make sure to check on old people” hot.

The problem is that your Monkey has to work in a professional environment every day, and being sweaty and professional only works if you are a boxer or a televangelist (am I right?)

Here’s how it goes once the temps go past 80 degrees. Your Monkey will start off the day with a clean, dry shirt and respectable pants. But by the end of the day, things will be quite different.

Let’s start at the base level. The boxer shorts will be sweaty all the way through, while the white undershirt will be soaked beyond recognition. The fabric of the undershirt itself, long sense battered beyond recognition as cotton-polyester, will start to lose all resemblance to an actual shirt and act more like a sad white jellyfish that one has to peel off the body. (After a long week of work one can usually find five days worth of traumatized T-shirts huddled together on the floor like the survivors of some shipwreck. The wreck of the U.S.S. Monkey, perhaps?)

And then there’s the dress shirt itself. There’s nothing like soaking through your the armpits of your shirt before you even arrive at the office. And then spending the day alternately aiming the office fan at your pits to cool things down, or lifting up your arms at your desk to check how things are going and risking embarrassment and ridicule from your co-workers. Or walking into a meeting and keeping your hands down low so that no one spies the rapidly spreading horror underneath your arms.

Equally unpleasant is getting home from work and realizing that the entire waistband of your pants is drenched in perspiration. Or that your socks are squishy because your feet keep sweating like a televangelist at a tax audit (Callback! Remember how I brought up televangelists before?)

Why is is that some people look so cool and relaxed no matter what the heat situation (I’m talking to you, ladies, with your sundresses and pedicured toes and nice perfume), while other people (and certain copywriting monkeys) start sweating and sticking and swishing in their clothes the moment they leave the shower?

Inquiring minds deserve to know.

Shameless self indulgence

In Which Your Humble Monkey Stares into the Saturday Abyss

Your monkey has a challenge ahead of himself today, my friends.

It is Saturday, the sun is shining, the air is warm, and yet your primate protagonist is doing his best to sit at his desk and power through some freelance writing projects.

The demons of distraction are swirling about him, even as he types this message to you.

Pssst. Hey buddy….

  • Why not take a break and watch TV?
  • Why not check Facebook?
  • Maybe you should play some guitar?
  • Aren’t there some pictures of girls that you should be googling? And then ogling?
  • Don’t you want to move a bunch of stuff from one spot to another in the apartment without actually accomplishing anything?
  • Don’t you want to see if there is anything on Netflix that you might want to watch, but then not actually watch anything?
  • Shouldn’t you let that homeless guy out of the locked cabinet in the basement?

Plus, Mrs. Monkey is out of the house today, so there is no one to keep your Monkey’s mind from wandering into dark corners of self-doubt and despair, or from assuming that while he is once again chained to his writing desk, everyone else is out having sexy cookouts and lawn orgies.

If your Monkey has one weapon in his toolbox today, is that he knows the challenge ahead of him. If he grits his teeth, bears down, and gets some writing done, he will be ahead of the game and be able to submit a nice little invoice by the close of business today.

If he gets distracted, fiddles around, fucks about, or cracks an early beer, then he will get upset with himself and feel even worse.

He will watch his stomach get bloated, worry about his rapidly advancing age and rapidly declining physical condition, and spend most of the afternoon weighing himself and trying to decide if he is toeing the fine line between handsomely husky or cringingly chubby.

This would not be a good outcome, my friends. How many good Monkeys have we already lost to distractions, weight insecurity, and charges of the unlawful imprisonment of the homeless?

Thus he shall do everything in his power to stay focused on the TOPIC AT HAND.