May 14, 2012 by Manny Wordsmith
I know people talk about the “Walk of Shame” like we only travel from our sexual exploits by foot. Like were ALL college students, on campus, looking for the best way to get to our dorms without our friends or other daywalkers seeing us. For most of us this shameful walk is in densely populated neighborhoods, where people are outside playing with their kids or cutting their lawns. Or even worse, the walk starts from the stairs, leading to a living room filled with our mate’s suspecting parents, who woke up extra early to see what all the screaming was about last night. We see their judgmental eyes and wonder if we should feel the guilt they’re trying to bestow on us, but we usually just want to flick them off. When we finally reach our cars, we still don’t think the pain is over. I want to talk about the “Drive of Shame”.
Your mouth makes that weird smacking sound when you open and close it. You’re not proud of it, nor are you proud of the taste. You don’t even want to swallow because you know EXACTLY where your tongue has been. Its contamination is the direct result of Tequila, Pabst’s, that “Climax” song by Usher and embarassingly loose morals.
You scramble around your car, looking for your sunglasses, scattering fast food bags and warm water bottles in hopes of finding relief. It was bad enough that the 4-year-old on the tricycle made fun of your animal hair matted wrinkled shirt, and your clacking shoes, but now the sun seems to be taking its turn, burning your eyes like seeing grandma climb out of the bathtub. When you find your glasses, you exhale deeply, bouncing your corroded breath off of your steering wheel and back into your open nose. You wave away the stench and toss in your last piece of Trident gum that you hid from yourself, for just this occasion.
Unfortunately, the gum doesn’t take away the body smells you and your mate exchanged like Christmas gifts. Your car now smells like a co-ed locker room after an intense game of shirts vs. skins. You lower your windows and begin to drive, understanding the repercussions of partying like a rock star and being more “spontaneous”. You also begin to second guess your maturity, as you think back to the last time you were rotting in your own car like a milk left on the counter….it was 4 days ago.
“I’m too old for this sh**,” you think.
You crack your back at every red-light and wonder how a grown adult can still sleep in a twin bed. You feel that the floor or the couch would’ve been a better scene for the crime, but instead, the heavy petting, sloppy kissing and shoe kicking led you into a room the size of a broom closet. You immediately felt like a teenager after prom, and not in the good way. But then you remember showing the club how to “cat daddy” the night before, and how the pain in your back could’ve easily come from that.
The frequent stops at the red-lights also bring the on-lookers who watch as you lick the plaque on the front of your teeth and make that Rick Ross sound when you get flashbacks from the night before.
“I can’t believe I told her I was in a band, I don’t even own a guitar.”
“I’ve never actually climbed through a window to get into a house before.”
“I’m pretty sure he had his diploma up on his wall, right next to his Megan Fox poster and Mardi Gras beads.
“Did we use a condom?”
You pull into your own neighborhood and see happy people jogging and power walking, getting coffee and buying low-carb Subway sandwiches. You hate them all. You hate that you gave most of your day to last night, and that the only thing you have to show for it is a ragged appearance, a mouth full of regret, and a sticky crotch. The war wounds of a less-than-perfect nightlife experience. But just before you get out of your car, your phone begins to vibrate erratically. You look to see that your best friends have tagged you in all the pics they took last night. The ones of you dancing, the ones of you taking shots and the ones of you making out with the person you just left. Too tired to send the “cease and decease” order, you exhale once again, grumble, and hope that your god-fearing aunt doesn’t call you again to a “talk” about your secular behavior and your promiscuous pandering .
“Shouldn’t of ever added that hag anyway”, you think.