CafféLatté Magazine

Sticky Skin and Smelly Arms

So, as I am typing this up, I am totally and unequivocally sticky. I am so sticky that mosquitoes are not even trying to bite me. In this hot country of TnT, there is no way you should bathe less than once a day. Should I be saying, no less than twice a day? No, I mean no less than once a day.

Recently, I have noticed that some Trini's refuse to touch WATER in the morning. They claim it is too cold, or the bathroom ain't scrub, or there is a snake on the shower head. When they walk the streets of POS, they stink to high heaven, and their breath can cause the most rigid of Pitch Pine to bow down to the earth.

I bathe at least twice a day, sometimes three times if the sun threatens to give me a heat-stroke. In NYC, in the Autumn, I tried to bathe at least twice a day, but the 'biting' cold, forced me to abandon that thought. Don't laugh, what is normal Autumn for New Yorkers, is biting cold for hot-blooded Trinis.

Twice I did not bathe for one whole day, I rolled out of bed, smelled under my arms, satisfied, threw on my clothes, had my breakfast, and went to classes. I came home, took off my clothes, threw on my night gown, did my home work and went to sleep. Next morning, I got up, smelled under my arms, and immediately felt like a bum. This happened in the winter. Twice. It was so cold, a warm glass of water, froze in less than one hour. I knew, that I had to bathe. I was a practicing anti-winter-bath-Caribbean-New Yorker.

Then, it happened, the Itching Creep Monster. It comes up to you, it starts from your neck, then your chest, your hair on your head begins to tingle, behind your knee-caps there is a sweet itch, then your back begins to tremble, like you know on NatGeo, the Zebra in the hot Safari is nibbling on dry grass, and the camera zooms in on its hide and its shaking off the biting insects? Well, only that you are not a Zebra, but you begin to imagine insects crawling on your back. then the sweaty-stale smell of old day's deodorant begins to emerge... the grimy-green fumes threatening to burst out of your coat and expose you to the other people in the crowed bus, then that member begins to itch, the sweet potato between your thighs. You start doing the cha-cha in the bus, but you are like three blocks away from home. The Itching Creep Monster, piles on the pressure, your eyes start tearing up. You see yourself, wanting to tear off your clothes and make a naked bolt for your front door. Finally! You're home! You dash to the bathroom, and turn on the tap, *sigh* the warm water runs through your hair and skin, the Itching Creep Monster, admits defeat, until another anti-winter-bath-Caribbean-New Yorker mood hits you again, "Not this time BUSTER." You lather on soap on your skin. AAAaaaahhhhhhhh! That feels good.

Yet here I am, in in my sticky glory writing to you like an Anti-bath-Slug. Gotta go!

CafféLatté Magazine!