There’s nothing that screams Sunday morning regrets louder than waking up close enough to home that there’s no point in calling an Uber but far enough that fifteen people, including at least a few you know, are going to see you. This level of regret only compiles when you wore heels out the night before.
I’m taking about the walk of shame, also known as the stride of pride depending on how over your ex you are. It’s a part of life that changes with the seasons and your age, but most definitely worth it for the story at least bi-annually.
In high school, if you ‘accidently’ fell asleep at a guys house, or, more likely, got hammered and woke up in a basement littered with bodies and Smirnoff, the walk of shame was all about getting out of there with your betches before his parents woke up and asked you if you’re his prom date Natalie. No, ma’am, I’m embarrassed to let you know that I am absolutely not Natalie. In high school, you didn’t really give a shit if people saw you in smeared make-up that hints to a BJ because you still looked badass for missing your curfew by 8 hours.
In college, the walk of shame was just a part of life. It’s really not that big of a deal because everyone does it, but it can definitely still be embarrassing if seen walk of shaming too often. Especially when you consider everyone in the neighborhood was your friend in the sense that you’ve taken shots together before. That’s why a college betch should always go out with a clean bedroom, so she can be fully prepared to bring home her premeditated hook-up and let him deal with the 8 a.m. cat calling.
Post-grad walk of shaming gets funnier but trickier. You probs didn’t dress up quite as slutty going out which is a plus but then again your held to an expectation to not be running across Broadway in a matted top-knot and a tequila stained party dress. No matter how close his house is to your apartment, it’s probs best to call the Uber anyway. Or better yet, leave the bar with someone who’s not only buying the drinks but the morning taxis too.