The Walk of Pride
by The Feminist
A few weeks ago, my dear friend repeated what her wise father once told her, “It’s not called the Walk of Shame, it’s the Ride of Pride!” To which I responded, “How true.”
“Walk of Shame: After spending the night at a member of the opposite sex’s house, having to walk home in the morning looking trashy, romped and hungover.” ~ urbandictionary.com
Now, I am sure that you have known people who have done the walk of shame; I for one have listened to plenty of stories where guys sneak back to their rooms shoeless and clothes in disarray. I have seen girls creep at 11 am to their dorms in a guy’s shirt hanging to their knees, and their club dress from the night before slung over their shoulder. Hell, I have been to parties where the walk of shame is not only an act, but also a theme. This past, week, I myself, was a guilty participant of the walk of so-called “shame.”
This particular boy that led to our unruly act, was brought on in result of a night filled with hormones, flirtation, a dollop of foolish behavior and a pinch of pure, under the influence stupidity. Granted, the subject, whom we shall call B.B., was one that I had been eying for a while, and had a face and physique that would make any gay man drool. May I just say many thanks to my “DD” who was obliterated to the point of no return, and who in consequence led to B.B.’s ride and offer of “three couches that you can sleep on.” But really, we both knew I wasn’t going to sleep on the couch.
Come morning after, I was woken up in B.B.’s bed by still inebriated DD. Now, I would like to interrupt to say that while I am perfectly fine with the Walk of Shame, the process of the morning after is one that I would choose to skip altogether. The groggy-eyed exchanges are nothing but awkward, the grossness of morning breath kisses, and the unwanted chance to actually look at the other in daylight, makes me not only want to gargle Listerine for 5 minutes, but feel the full wrath of self-consciousness as well. I won’t even get into the 20-minute search for undergarments, or attempting to cover oneself up while making their way to the bathroom, either.
Once I established that it was time for me to go home, got dressed in last night’s clothes, tried and failed to fix my sex hair, which had doubled in both height and width, B.B. and I walked down his apartment and to his car. I made it to the sidewalk before I stopped at a dead halt when I realized which car B.B. was actually going towards. Oh, dear God.
For some reason, I had no recollection of driving the night before in what looked to be a 1990 station wagon the color of sandpaper and size of my twin bed. Oh, and let’s not forget the two blue golf balls dangling from the rear-view mirror to complete the touch.
On first, initial thought, I adamantly refused to be seen in this trash dump of a vehicle in public. Then I considered asking a friend for a ride instead, or even calling a cab. But I had gone too far. I had no choice but to hop in.
Then there is the ride home: where the two of you try to fill in silence with meaningless talk. A tip for notice- you know that talking has failed when he turns up the music. Then there is the point where he actually has arrived at your place, and the expectancy of a kiss goodbye is ensued. I, however, do not believe in goodbye kisses after one night stands. Nor, for that matter, getting their number. So I blurted out a quick bye and thanks, then walked over to my apartment.
To put in perspective, I was wearing my neon and striped hip-hugger dress from last night’s blacklight party, my white heels in hand, yellow trench coat over the shoulder, smudged make-up, and what can only be described as a rat’s nest of hair on the back of my head. Now, you have two choices: you can bow your head down in “shame,” or you can strut the stride (barefoot or not) and congratulate oneself on a night well done. Furthermore, even though all passersby may be judging your “Ride of Pride,” they are probably simultaneously thinking, “Why not me?”
It is, after all, the most enjoyable of all the morning after moments. It is also the equivalent of going out of your room, raising both hands up and yelling SCORE! at the top of your lungs after an one night stand. I for one, would choose the Ride of Pride every time.
