Illustration by: Ashley Fairbourne
One of the more awkward situations humans face in today’s culture is “the morning after” or “the walk of shame.” Translation: you just had sex and now you have to either face the person the next morning or walk through town in last night’s dress.
Just the name is cringe-worthy: a walk of shame? My editor recently turned me onto another title; students have renamed it to be the “stride of pride.” From now on I will rock the stride of pride but this story, this is definitely a walk of shame.
Even though I hadn’t had sex with the person next to me, we had certainly rounded a few bases after making some cocktails. According to a study conducted in Columbus, Ohio, 64 percent of crimes by the state’s prison inmates were committed under the influence of alcohol. I would assert that 95 percent of sexual mistakes happen under the influence as well.
But he was handsome, had great teeth and his house looked like a page out of a Home and Design catalog. More importantly, I was desperately trying to get over my ex whom had taken less than couple days after we broke up to start seeing other people. I just wanted to beat him to the punch. So why didn’t I feel any better?
The bed, which had seemed like a giant cloud last night, now sort of hurt my back and made me sweat under its suffocating covers. I peered over at a clock which informed me it was only three in the morning.
I tried to fall back asleep but it was useless. I knew I would sleep much better in my own bed so I started devising my escape plan.
After doing an awkward shuffle to free myself from this guy’s arm cuddle, I had to find the articles of clothing I had lost. The only light was a super saturated glow from a street lamp peering through the blinds. I might as well have been blind.
By some miracle I found everything, even both my socks, which are usually counted as casualties in these types of situations, and I headed out the bedroom door.
I figured he would want his door locked, right? If he’s anything like me he would fear a serial killer would show up in the middle of the night so he’d want to take every precaution to keep them away. I locked the door.
That’s when I realized my phone wasn’t in my hand or in my pocket or on top of my head or anywhere near my body. It was still in his room.
I felt like slamming my head into the wall but instead I tried to remain calm. I attempted to open the door to no avail. I raided the drawers of a nearby bathroom in search of a bobby pin to pick the lock, but there wasn’t one anywhere. Why don’t boys use bobby pins occasionally? If for no other reason but this situation alone?
I kept walking on the balls of my feet as to not wake up his three roommates; Blah, Blah and Blah. I had met them last night and quickly forgotten their names. It would be humiliating if they knew I’d slept over. Especially if Blah knew, because he seemed like the judgmental type.
At this point I was panicking. Like many of today’s youth, my phone might as well be my child or my kidneys. It’s difficult to part ways with it and I feel like a horrible parent being so irresponsible with my latest edition baby. Would my phone grow up to resent me? Would it ever get over this negligence?
Then I had a thought! My family always kept keys at the top of our door frames and as I looked up I could see that his is up there, too. I tried to reach for it but for some reason the doors in the house were taller than usual. Seriously, did they build that house for NBA players or that guy from The Princess Bride?
After trying to silently jump and continuously missing I decided to find some type of stool.
Bachelors don’t typically have this stuff lying around. I searched for a good fifteen minutes before I finally found an industrial sized bucket of Tidy Cats kitty litter that I drug to the bedroom door and stood on. It was tall enough so I was able to get the key, more importantly get my phone, and get the hell out of there.
I slept great in my own bed but in the morning I had regret coursing through my veins. I woke up to a text from him.
“Did you lock my door?”
Me: “Yeah I didn’t want you getting burgled and blaming me.”
Him: “I was wondering who did that. I never lock my door.”
Figures.
