This sums up most of what needs to be said:
Yeah, I’m a sweater. A sweatheart. I have a distinct memory of going to a dance class as a youth and attempting to put antiperspirant all the way around my neck to eliminate the sweat there. This was not successful. In many ways, this would not be a successful endeavor.
I know everyone sweats, but this style, this is where you occasionally see a look of concern on a stranger’s face as you pass by. It’s like they’re watching you run by, and you’ve been impaled by a spear. You can see them thinking: This person appears to be in distress. Maybe I should see if they need assistance. On the other hand, they seem fully aware. He’s running, so I guess he’s alright to continue?
It’s a good reason to wear a lot of black. White shirts turn a disgusting yellow. Grey? I’m betrayed by grey. Really, when it comes to my preferences for not the sun and my reactions to heat and my love of black clothing, I should have been a goth kid. But I don’t like the music very much. Or the wacky pants. Or the hairstyles. I guess maybe I should have found some goth kids and given them a knowing nod now and then. “I hear you, bros. I hear you.”