Permission to Schvitz

I sweat all the time. At first I thought it was the coffee, but it’s not the coffee. I know this because I stopped drinking coffee and saw absolutely no difference. It’s not dehydration. It’s not alcohol. It’s got nothing to do with what I drink. Or how much I sleep. Or even the goddamn temperature. It’s been below freezing this entire month and I have not stopped sweating. I have come to the conclusion that it’s because of anxiety. And by that I mean, it’s because I’m jewish.

Tradition is a big part of my life. I wore a yarmulke everyday until I was 16. I can read from the Torah without vowels. I’ve braided more challah dough than I care to admit. Toss me a fiddle and a ladder, because there is a roof somewhere that I should be sitting on. But despite all that, sweating is without question the most enduring jewish tradition I partake in. Whether in the promised land or the diaspora, we are literally always overheating.

You’d think a person so accustomed to dampness would at some point resign themselves to it. But until recently, I had not. I fought it with everything in me. I’d pat my forehead with a napkin. I’d stand very still on the train. I’d jut out my jaw and blow little bursts of cool air into my nose, as if that does fucking anything.

I cannot believe this is happening, I’d mutter to myself. I said this every time. It is also traditional to be perpetually shocked at the state of things, despite the unchanging nature of the state of things.

Broad City is one of the best shows currently on TV. Chronicling the absurd, hilarious, and occasionally moving exploits of two jewish girls in New York, it’s not groundbreaking in plot but in candor. The show is so honest, there are moments I wish they’d start lying to me. The first episode of season two, aptly titled “In Heat,” shows the girls struggling to find an air conditioner.

I cannot stress enough how sweaty they are in this episode. Seth Rogan guest stars, at one point gleefully noting how the stains on his t-shirt make a smiley face. It’s disgusting. And delightful.

It might be insane to say that Abbi and Ilana being shiny on camera is a radical political act. Yet here I am, saying exactly that. In the same way Fran Drescher walked her curls and curves into the Sheffield mansion, Abbi and Ilana are normalizing an authentic if somewhat disquieting cultural experience.

No, it’s not saving anyone’s life. But it’s something I think about when I get on the train with five grocery bags, taking up four seats and feeling my cheeks flush. I remember Abbi and Ilana sweating through their shirts, and instead of wiping off my forehead I just let it be. Maybe I look better with a little glow anyway.