You know what? I wish I could sweat the small stuff. And when you say, “no sweat, my pet” nonchalantly, it hurts my feelings. “I’m sweating bullets,” you complain. Bite your tongue, young man. There are people out there with real problems and with real feelings to boot.

So you think I’m cynical. All right. Try living a day in my shoes. My name is Seamus Brady. I am a son, a brother and a devoted cat-owner. I am also an athlete living with Irritable Ammunition Dispense Syndrome. I literally sweat bullets. For years, my condition went undiagnosed. As an awkward youth, the effects were devastating. With the ebbs and flows of puberty came an ocean of ammo in my life. I found that no matter how powerful the anti-perspirant, no matter how sweet-smelling the deodorant, no product was strong enough to save me the torment of smelling like lead and having a most alarming trail of bullets drip from my forehead and collect in my tucked-in button-downs.

I’ll never forget the bittersweet day when I found that the happy, underarm-moisture-free days of childhood were forever behind me. Only some years back, I was a regular kid camping in the Northern Woods, enjoying the last Boy Scouts’ wilderness survival trip of the season. And survive I did. After a prizewinning potato-sack race, it was my turn to prove myself victorious at archery. For the first time in my life, nerves got the best of me. I began hyperventilating, biting my nails . . . sweating profusely. I straightened my spine, drew back my elbow and steadied my eye on the approaching bird of prey flying above me. This was my chance to prove that I was no longer a boy, but a man; a man who could tame Lady Nature on the off chance that he would ever be stranded in the woods alone. “Get yourself together!” I yelled at myself, silently. I raised my arm, only to release a shower of bullets that stopped an approaching grizzly dead in his tracks. Fine bear meat was the main course that night around the fire. I was heralded a hero . . . a tragic hero who had to be quarantined in a rusty horse wagon until he could be brought to the local hospital the next morning. I never got my fair share of roasted marshmallows.

From that day forward, my outfits have been restricted to bulletproof body suits and army helmets. With the new J-Lo camouflage line that came out last fall, I’ve been able to rival my peers in the latest trends and fashions. That’s not to say that I haven’t fallen victim to my fair share of teasing and insults. It’s just that I don’t let my condition stop me from leading a fulfilling life. Sure I have abnormally large pores, what’s it to ya? My blood circulates a higher-than-average lead content. Big whoop. Yeah, my being nude in nerve-racking situations can be a bit dangerous for those present, but who’s to say that’s not a universal problem that everyone must tackle? So yeah, I happen to sweat bullets, but I also happen to be a member of the debate team at school, I happen to love grilled cheese sandwiches with sprouts and I happen to absolutely “heart” my cat, Freckles. He lowers my blood pressure. And I don’t sweat on him in return.