The Morning After Walk of Shame
The walk of shame.
Please tell me we’ve all have been there?
[Why yes, we talk ALL about it, here!]
You know, that morning after you’ve had a randy night and you’re forced to retreat home (or worse, work) in the same clothes you were seen in the day before?
Only, I hear some people walk with a little spring in their step, because dude, they just got laid. Of course this only happens when you wake up and the guy is as hot as you thought he was when you were wasted the night before. Or at the very least, the sex was “acceptable.”
Unfortunately, there’s no spring in my step. Ever.
I’m the woman who always picks the wrong guy the night before.
On more than one occasion, I’ve woken up realizing I’d done something ill-advised. The indication for such was the man sleeping next to me.
I am not proud of myself.
This is because I’ve rarely found myself with a random dude. In fact, I never found myself with a random dude I’d never face again. No, it’s always been a guy my sober self would never have adult relations with.
But Drunk Jill doesn’t make good decisions. She screw guys she’s already dumped, or previously considered a friend. But as a drunk chick she got handsy and forgot all those things.
Take the time I went to Cali for my dad’s 50th birthday. Of all the guys I could’ve found myself waking up next to, I open my eyes and recognize the room I’m in. I’m filled with dread. I try to convince myself I’m alone in this bed and the hazy recollection of shots of vodka filled with making out with my ex-boyfriend were just a side effect of, well, the vodka.
But alas, there he is.
Cue the headache as I do the mental run through of the night before. He’s the ex-boyfriend my dad insisted I marry. The guy I dated and dumped at least ten times and yet sonofabitch here I am in his bed. Again.
Waking up in the ex-boyfriend’s bed isn’t bad enough, but running into his mother in the kitchen is far worse.
“Adónde vas, m’ija?” she says.
Busted. Worse yet, my Spanish was rusty and my ex-boyfriend’s mother insisted on lecturing me en Español at an unholy hour of the morning. But she made me huevos rancheros and poured me coffee, so I sat and took the lecture about self-respect and not breaking her son’s heart.
This is the point where I mentally plot the death of my so-called friends for not only letting me, but apparently driving me, to my ex-boyfriend’s mother’s house and leaving the two of us there drunk and without a means to possibly escape. That is, until I vaguely recall talking them into it. Except that part about bringing us to his mom’s. I’m pretty sure I meant his apartment, but apparently didn’t care.
That’s when she stops speaking Spanish and says “I’ll drive you to your car. And don’t worry, I won’t mention this to your father at his birthday party tonight. No sense getting up the hopes of a dying man.”
So, not only do we have shame, we have guilt? Ay, dios mio!