I looked out the window behind my head and was disoriented for a moment by the tall buildings that surrounded me. I looked over at the guy next to me, a junior from the University of Florida who I had met at a bar the night before. We had crashed at his friend's apartment.
"Where are we?" I asked. "Gold Street. The financial district," he responded. I nodded, completely lacking comprehension.
A short walk, a few wrong turns and a long subway ride later I was back at my friend's place on the Upper West Side, having completed my Spring Break walk of shame in the Big Apple.
I had my first walk of shame before classes even started freshman year. My friends and I went out to the ever-classy Passport. We returned to the LA Quad and I ran into a guy I had apparently met the night before. He asked me to accompany him back to his place down Wisconsin Avenue. The next morning I woke up in the un-air conditioned apartment and retrieved my polo from the floor. It was still soaked with sweat from being out the night before. I walked the mile or so back to campus, squinting in the sun and cringing at my sticky apparel.
There are many different kinds of walks of shame. Some involve long walks in uncomfortable attire; others elicit unwelcome stares on public transportation. Even when your hook-up consents to driving you home or the walk is just down the hall, you never know how awkward the conversation will be or who you will encounter along the way. Imagine my surprise to one time see my professor board the shuttle as I was rushing back to change before reappearing 15 minutes later in his class.
The worst walks of shame seem to be when our outfits are deemed too awful to see the light of day and thus necessitate the lending of clothes from the other party. In the spring of my freshman year I had the pleasure of walking through the rush hour foot traffic of Farragut North wearing a teal sleeveless tee, tight jeans, and cowboy boots. That time I sucked it up.
Sophomore year, I was unwilling to wear the red sleeveless tee and white booty shorts that said, respectively, "Trick," across my chest and "Treat" across my butt in iron-on letters that I donned for Halloween during a walk of shame through Foggy Bottom. Of course, when you do decide that a change of attire is necessary, you rarely receive anything that is more suitable. He gave me gym shorts and a tee that made some stupid innuendo about a rodent. I threw them out as soon as I got home.
Although, I will admit that I do have it easier than some of my female counterparts, like one of my friends who passed a tour group as she arrived back at the dorms in her boyfriend's gym clothes, about three sizes too big. I could have passed for a common slob; she was probably labeled a slut.
There is really no way of avoiding it, unless we want to carry a bag out with emergency supplies, including but not limited to: dark sunglasses, ibuprofen, an mp3 player, a hoodie and/or baseball hat and flip flops. We are doomed to make the most of our awkward outfits, our messy hair and dark-circled eyes. After all, someday we'll be waking up next to someone who boosts our dignity every time, rather than initiating our shame. And if that doesn't happen sometime soon, just have that special someone over to your place and then you can send him or her home in your old gym clothes, instead.
If you must still trek it back home, then hold your head up high and embrace your unflinching nerve to let your night end the following afternoon. After all, that line I read on the Internet can be right in some occasions: It's not a walk of shame; it's a stride of pride. No one has to know where you've been.
