Anyone else sweaty? No? Just me? OK.

I learned something beyond disturbing the other day: About a quarter of air pollution comes from human skin and dandruff. Twenty-five percent. It's enough to make a girl dig her SARS mask back out.
It's the most unsetting news I've heard since I learned what it took on my parents' part to get me to the planet. But back to skin cells: Take comfort, person next to me on the subway. My skin cells are firmly in place thanks to the glue that is my sweat. See, I don't have air conditioning, which means that from the time I wake up to the time I pass out from heat stroke nightly, I feel like a piece of fruit stuck in a dehydrator, despite drinking liters of water a day – often while waiting in line to pay for said water.
Project "Keep Kate in an air conditioned building at all times" fails on a daily basis. After window shopping and getting groceries, there's not much else to do.
Like all New Yorkers, I'm used to the garden variety "Hey baby" and "Looking good Mami"from guys on the street, but thanks to my constant sweat glow I was completely freaked out yesterday. On the subway, my usual concern is not sticking my armpit in the face of the person in front of me when I'm holding on to the bar, but a whole new meaning of fear was opened to me when a guy leaned over before getting off and whispered in my ear "Nice skin," which seems like something a person would say before skinning you.
My plight is actually all the worse because I actually do have a window AC unit, but my landlord won't get back to me about installing it, and the self-installation scenarios in my head are not pretty. I'm on the fifth floor and there's a courtyard below my window where kids play (loudly). Add to it that I'm the only gringo in my building, and you can imagine that I don't need the bad P.R.
I can see the Post headline the next day "Neighbors describe AC Monster as quiet, Caucasian, sweaty."