Yesterday I bought an Underarmour workout shirt. It is black, men’s size L, and the tag says things like “ColdGear®” and “Our compression fit is about maximizing performance.” The advertising copy is really top-notch.
I tried it on in the store, because I’ve never had a compression workout shirt before, and I instantly felt the way the gear, engineered tight to my skin, began to accelerate moisture transfer and to bolster muscle support.
There was hardly any need to look at the price tag. I manfully swiped my debit card. With my jaw muscles set to “extra-square,” I punched in my PIN. In a gruff, deep voice I told the checkout lady she could toss the receipt in the bag. That would be great, thank you.
I haven’t worn it yet, obviously. Look how warm and sunny it is today – ColdGear® would be womanish. When the temperature drops again, though, I’ll brave the Cambridge cold in my new purchase. I plan on snarling and sweating.
Already I’m looking forward to never washing it. When you smell me coming, you’ll know: that is the scent of man.
Allan
The Quadrangle 
The Y-chromosomes return.
The scent of man, eh? You’ll be bathing in cresol, then, a constituent of sweat (some p-cresol, which apparently contributes to the stink of pigs) and plenty of propionic, butryic, and isovaleric acids, all of which are vinegar or cheesy notes in the perfume that is body odor.
Just be glad you don’t have trimethylaminuria. It affects your ability to break down cholines (neurotransmitters, etc.) and the chain stops at trimethylamine, which reeks wonderfully of decaying fish.