Filling my own dams

I've always liked the cold. Only thing is, my body and, more specifically, my sinuses, just don't seem to think what I like has any importance. Therefore, even though I like the cold, I've always had to bundle up against air-conditioned spaces. I usually head out to cinemas and shopping centres with a sweater or sweatshirt in tow.

The tables seem to have turned in my second trimester. Nobody ever told me you could feel quite this hot at all times of the day. I take a five minute walk out in the sweltering heat and find rivers of sweat cascading down the crevice between my breasts. I stand outside of the aircond and I break out in a sweat. My armpits are constantly damp and if I move I swear I could fill reservoirs or dams with the pools of sweat my body's creating.

The act of breathing makes me sweat. My ceiling fan is set on to 3 at all times. It usually doesn't go beyond a 2. I've had to resort to the aircond more than a few nights in a row. I'm surprised my upper lip hasn't broken out in beads of sweat yet so far; the rest of my body seems to have taken on an ability to produce sweat at the drop of a hat: the crooks of my elbows, behind my knees, my pelvic joints, all those areas which bend and wherever there are folds. Did I mention that growing a couple of breast sizes bigger has caused sweat to pool under my breasts? I don't know how well-endowed women tolerate this but I find it utterly annoying! Yuck.

When I lounge around in the living room, I look like I've thrown all sense of ettiquette out the window (and where I look more than a little obscene): my limbs are all akimbo, legs wide apart and arms as far away from my body as possible. I try to keep as little skin contact with the couch as possible. And when that's no good, I sink down onto the carpet where the only contact between the floor and me is right at the tail of my butt, and my legs are bent so that only my heels touch the floor. Anyone walking in on me would think I'm preparing for early labour. The only thing missing would be the cursing and swearing.

I've taken to rolling my T-shirt and wadding it up under my boobs just so that my belly can have a fresh breath of air. And if I have my sports bra on, I've deviced a way of rolling the T-shirt under the elasticed band and up so that it bunches into that cleavage to soak up whatever sweat that develops and pools there. I've never felt more ingenious in my life.