Whether you know it as the “Walk of Shame” or “Stride of Pride,” it is a trek that I have become all too well acquainted with; it begins with the sudden realization that you did not manage to make it home last night and instead it ends upon your return home, heels in hand, makeup smeared, and wearing a man’s t-shirt, masquerading as a dress. Having had to shamefully walk home many-a-morning after a crazy debacle, I am learning more and more about the proper etiquette for departing his apartment incognito.
Typically, there are a series of steps that precede my actual escape: I open my eyes, peer around the room, and I mentally take note of the fact that I am definitely “not in Kansas anymore”; usually panic sets in as my thoughts begin to overwhelm me: “Where the flip?? How the flip?? Oh shhhhh”; you playfully remove the guy’s arm wrapped around your body and catch a glimpse of his face with your peripheral vision: “Oh crap. This could be very awkward.” When you get a grasp of the situation, you begin to map out the quickest and most efficient way of sneaking out. It is a physical feat like no other. Personally, I have sustained grave physical injuries as a result of some of the acrobatic maneuvers I have had to pull off when bypassing a couch or desk chair. As you hike your leg over a pile of dirty briefs and sweats, a muffled voice behind you calls out your name (that is, if he happened to catch your name). I have tried every trick in the book to avoid having to have that conversation with the fellow left behind, but I am afraid, my tricks have had little success. Once, I used the “deer caught in the headlights” approach, but he will inevitably realize that you are not a figment of his imagination. I have tried sprinting from the room, but I do not advise anyone to flee the scene without glancing over the room for personal artifacts; it is not fun hauling arse out of the guy’s room only to find that you have to return to the fraternity house later that day for your phone and your ID. It is not the most graceful of exits, but you may just have to give him an excuse for leaving prematurely that satisfies his ego and gives you the green light to go: “Last night was great. really, I mean that, but my dad is returning from his undercover op in Afghanistan today and if I don’t pick him up at 6:30 a.m., it’ll be hell to pay. See, it’s already 6. I’m going to be late.”
Take it from someone who has only felt compelled to stay put on one or two occasions, a few, fallacious words go much further than tripping and stumbling down a dimly lit staircase with half of your belongings dragging on the floor behind you.
Author: Guest
