SURVIVING SPANISH SUMMER: A SWEATY SURVIVAL GUIDE NOBODY ASKED FOR

SURVIVING SPANISH SUMMER: A SWEATY SURVIVAL GUIDE NOBODY ASKED FOR

Right. Let's talk about Spanish summer.

Not the Instagram version with the perfect sunset paella and the breezy linen dress that somehow stays pristine.

I'm talking about the ACTUAL Spanish summer. The one where you wake up at 6am already sweating. Where your thighs have declared war on each other. Where you're genuinely considering whether it's socially acceptable to just live in the freezer aisle of Mercadona.

Nobody warns you about this bit when you're planning your "dream move to sunny Spain."

They show you beaches. They mention "300 days of sunshine" like it's a selling point and not a threat.

What they DON'T tell you is that Spanish summer isn't just hot. It's Biblical. It's the kind of heat that makes you question your life choices. It's 40+ degrees and you're expected to just... function. Like a normal person. While actively melting.

THE GREAT BOOB SWEAT CONSPIRACY

Let's address the elephant in the room. Or rather, the situation happening under every single bra in Spain between June and September.

BOOB SWEAT.

Why does nobody talk about this? Why is there not a government warning system?

You know that moment when you've been sitting down for 10 minutes and you stand up and realize you've created your own personal waterpark situation? Where you have to do that subtle "peel the bra away from your body" maneuver and pretend you're just adjusting your shirt?

Yeah. That.

I've now got a whole arsenal of anti-boob-sweat strategies:

Strategy #1: The Cotton Bra Revolution

I own approximately 47 sports bras now. All cotton. All ugly. All purchased in a panic at 11pm on Amazon after another day of underwire torture.

Underwire in Spanish summer is a hate crime against yourself. It's like wearing a tiny personal sauna that also stabs you. Why did I think this was a good idea? Why does anyone?

Strategy #2: The Baby Powder Incident

I went through a phase of applying baby powder like I was a Victorian lady preparing for a ball.

Spoiler: this creates a paste situation that is somehow WORSE than the original sweat. You end up with what I can only describe as "boob cement." Do not recommend.

Strategy #3: The Cooling Bra Inserts

Yes, these exist. Yes, I bought them. Yes, they're currently sitting in my freezer next to the ice cream.

Do they work? Kind of. For about 7 minutes. Then you're just wearing cold, wet gel packs that are now warm, wet gel packs. It's like having two small, disappointing water balloons strapped to your chest.

Strategy #4: Fuck It, No Bra

This is where I'm at now. Loose cotton dress. No bra if I can get away with it. Hair permanently scraped into a bun. Dignity left somewhere back in May.

The Spanish seem fine with this approach, to be fair. Nobody's batting an eyelid. Except me, internally, because I'm still British and therefore programmed to feel vaguely embarrassed about my own body at all times.

THE THIGH CHAFING HORROR SHOW

Can we also discuss why my thighs have decided they're mortal enemies in summer?

In winter? Best friends. No issues. Harmonious leg situation.

In summer? They're actively trying to destroy each other through friction. It's like they're in a grudge match and I'm just the unfortunate arena.

I've tried:

Anti-chafe cream: Works for approximately 40 minutes before you're reapplying in a public toilet wondering how your life came to this.

Those weird shorts under dresses: Great until you realize you're now wearing MORE LAYERS in 40-degree heat. Genius.

Loose trousers: See above re: more fabric = more heat = why am I doing this to myself.

Accepting my fate: Current strategy. Just walking slightly wider like a penguin and hoping nobody notices.

THE BACK SWEAT BETRAYAL

Here's something nobody prepared me for: BACK SWEAT.

You walk 200 meters to the bins and come back looking like you've just competed in a triathlon.

There's a permanent wet patch on every chair I sit in. I'm basically marking my territory through perspiration. Very attractive.

I've started carrying a small towel everywhere like I'm a gym bro, except I'm not working out, I'm just EXISTING.

Sitting in a restaurant? Towel between me and the chair.
Getting in the car? Towel on the seat.
Visiting someone's house? Towel. Always towel.

I'm one step away from just wearing a towel as a cape and calling it fashion.

THE UNDER-BOOB RASH SITUATION

I'm sorry, but we need to talk about this.

Under-boob rash is REAL. It's COMMON. And it's absolutely nobody's fault but it feels like a personal failure every single time.

You'd think that after 52 years on this planet I'd have figured out how to exist with boobs in hot weather. NOPE.

Apparently the trick is:

  • Keep the area dry (IMPOSSIBLE)
  • Wear breathable fabrics (I'M TRYING)
  • Apply antifungal cream if needed (glamorous)

I've now got a dedicated drawer of "summer body maintenance supplies" that includes:

  • Three types of antifungal cream
  • Baby powder (despite the paste incident)
  • Aloe vera gel
  • Those weird moisture-wicking pads
  • Emergency zinc cream
  • Several small fans (we'll get to this)

It's like preparing for a military operation except the enemy is my own sweat glands.

MY SURVIVAL STRATEGIES (AKA: HOW I'M STAYING ALIVE)

Right. Here's what's actually working.

The Ice Pack Rotation System

My freezer now looks like I'm preparing for a natural disaster. Ice packs everywhere. Gel packs. Frozen water bottles. That weird ice cube tray that makes those long thin ice cubes specifically for water bottles.

The routine:

  • Morning: grab two ice packs, one for neck, one for wrists
  • Midday: swap them out (they've melted)
  • Afternoon: repeat
  • Evening: fuck it, I'm just holding frozen peas

It's not dignified but it WORKS.

The Strategic Fan Army

I own six fans now. SIX.

There's one in every room. Plus a handheld battery-operated one in my bag at all times. Plus a USB one for my desk. Plus the car has air con permanently on Arctic Blast setting.

My electricity bill thinks I'm running a small wind farm. I don't care. I'm SURVIVING.

The Wet Towel Hack

This sounds insane but hear me out: wet towel around your neck, sitting in front of a fan.

You look absolutely ridiculous. Like you've just escaped from a budget spa or possibly a psychiatric facility.

But it WORKS. The evaporative cooling is real. Science is real. Looking like a drowned rat is a small price to pay for not actively melting.

The Siesta Acceptance

I used to think siestas were optional. Cute cultural quirk. Something lazy people did.

NOPE.

Siestas are SURVIVAL STRATEGY.

The Spanish aren't sleeping in the afternoon because they're tired. They're sleeping because going outside between 2pm and 6pm is SUICIDE.

I now have blackout curtains. I close all the shutters. I turn into a vampire. I re-emerge at 7pm when the temperature has dropped to a "barely survivable" 35 degrees.

This is the way.

The Shower Situation

I'm having approximately 27 showers a day now.

Cold showers. All cold. I've forgotten what warm water feels like.

The Spanish think I'm insane because their showers are boiling hot even in summer. But I've adapted. I'm basically amphibious now.

Pro tip: shower, don't dry off, stand in front of fan. You're welcome.

The Wardrobe Transformation

My entire summer wardrobe now consists of:

  • Loose cotton dresses (no bra underneath, we've covered this)
  • Linen everything (despite the creasing, I've made peace with looking permanently crumpled)
  • Sandals (toe freedom is essential)
  • A single cardigan for the aggressive air conditioning in shops

Everything else is in storage until October.

Makeup? Forgotten about her.
Hair styling? She doesn't live here anymore.
Matching underwear? Who even am I.

THE THINGS NOBODY TELLS YOU

Here are some bonus Summer In Spain facts that nobody mentions:

Your phone will overheat. Genuinely. It'll just give up. I've had my iPhone refuse to work because it's "too hot." Same, phone. Same.

Plastic furniture is the enemy. That lovely plastic garden chair? It's now a sweat-collection device. You'll peel yourself off it sounding like velcro. Delightful.

Your makeup will slide off your face. I've given up. I look like a melted candle by 10am anyway. Why bother.

You'll start planning your day around shade. Where's the shade? When will there be shade? Can I get from the car to the shop without entering direct sunlight? This is your life now.

You'll understand why Spanish people eat dinner at 10pm. Because eating before then means sitting in a restaurant actively sweating into your gazpacho.

You'll develop very strong opinions about air conditioning. And you'll become That Person who complains when shops have it too cold. (After spending all day desperately seeking air conditioning. The irony is not lost on me.)