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"Embarrassing HH Moments I"

8 March 2003

I've had axillary HH for about about half my life, so by now I'm relatively used to it. I decided some time ago that I wasn't going to let it stop me from wearing nice clothes, or dating, or going places, or simply living life. For the most part, I can calmly ignore when my underarm sweat is showing and someone notices. Even so, there are times, group settings in particular, when it is still difficult for me to not get embarrassed.

There have been several such incidents I've experienced. My writing about them is twofold: first it's cathartic for me, and second I hope it helps others with HH to know that you are not alone and you too can survive.

About a year ago I was at the airport leaving for a business trip. For the flight out I wore pants, plus a medium blue silk blouse and a blazer that went well. I knew the stress of travel would make my HH act up, so the blouse was one I didn't care about getting sweaty since it already had salty underarm stains from wearing it during a dental appointment. I figured with a blazer as a cover up, who would know?

I took this picture of the blouse to document how much I had sweat during the stressful trip to the dentist:

This had been the first time I'd flown since 9/11 so I wasn't quite prepared for the security measures and hadn't allowed much extra time. Show ID again, and again, and again. It's really rather silly since any serious terrorist is going to be able to make a convincing false ID, but that's a different story.

By the time I got to the X-ray machine I could tell that I was sweating a fair amount, more than usual. I can sense the approximate amount by the way my blouse sticks to me and how it feels cool after a breeze. My carry-on and purse went on the belt and I emptied my pockets then walked through the detector. Bleep!

A security guard quickly ordered "Please step over here Miss." I figured he'd wand me and that would be that. But, no, this was only a few months after 9/11, so once I had woken the machine, I became a prime suspect.

As he wanded me, the other guards pulled my bags aside, opened them, and began to empty their contents. Great. Then the wand echoed the big machine. Bleep! Great, just great. It sounded repeatedly when he ran it over my left breast. He put the wand down and, without a word, began to frisk me, starting at my ankles and working his way up. He slid his hands under my blazer and continued upward being sure not to miss the sides of my breasts. What a racket the security thing is!

When he worked his way up to near my underarms he jerked his hands out quickly and wiped them on his pants. "Please remove your jacket, Miss. OK, now lift your arms up and keep them up please." Knowing what was about to be unveiled, I cringed, but I did as I was told. I saw his gaze dart back and forth between my armpits. He said "Just a moment" then stepped away. He walked to another guard and said something to him, and now he was staring at me too.

I don't know which was worse, having my breasts groped, or standing there with my arms held up for frisking while the guards and other passengers eyed my sweaty, salty pits from just a few feet away. It was probably only a few seconds but it seemed like an eternity before a female security guard took over. I thought she might be less rude, but I was wrong.

"Why are you sweating so much Miss? Are you hiding something under your blouse?" How was I supposed to answer that? Yes, a club to bop some sense into your head? I felt perspiration trickle down from my pits. Sweating is probably on their "things nervous terrorists do" list, so now I was almost certainly guilty.

Well, after further inspection, it turned out they had discovered the metal part of a pen stuck in my blazer, as well as the underwire in my bra, and I was allowed to board the plane, barely making it on time.

For prior stories, see the archives.