The game started in the heart of the afternoon, and while I'm not known for extensive sweat, there was no escaping it yesterday. Liquid beads were rolling down each extremity of my body and my shorts were soaking wet. I WAS HOT! And not the jaw-dropping, head-turning, cat-calling, 'Damn, I want to bang you!' kind of hot, but the sticky-hands, drenched orifices, flushed cheeks, heavy breathing, wet-hair kind of hot. At one point I turned to R.Sox and commented:
"I'm a bit confused about this aroma surrounding me. I can't decide if it's me and last night's alcohol exiting my pores, if it's you and your alcohol from last night exiting your body, if it's everyone else around us, or if I just smell pickles."
We both decided it was probably the best mixture of all 4 options. Mmmmm - I think we have a new Ralph Lauren fragrance in the making. Anyhoo, I'm pretty good about not complaining in uncomfortable situations at sporting events like most girls do, and I was doing my best not to let out any expression of discontent, but with my fair skin and the intense direct sun, there was bound to be some whining. I didn't want to be too much a pain in the ass, so I repositioned myself in the walkway under the shade while R.Sox remained in our seats. Apparently, more people agreed with my choice than his.
You know, sitting in the shade for those last 2 innings really helped me escape a horrific burn. Thank god I'm so smart and put sunscreen on...in the third inning.
Who thinks I'm going to look ridiculously sexy in my cocktail dress at a wedding this upcoming weekend? Nothing says beautiful like some jacked up 
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