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Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
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Monday
Oct172005

Walk of Shame

Bright sunlight slits into my eyes like a paper cut. I can feel my hair funking out at odd angles, phantom pains form the ponytail that once was. My breath is so rancid I can smell it. Tongue coated in a film of scum.

Gradually, nausea recedes a bit and my brain is available to focus on other, more important issues. Namely, where am I? While I consider this, a heavy weight pressing my legs into the mattress laps into my consiousness like ripples from skipping rocks. A leg. A hefty, hairy leg.

Like a slide show, last night pops into my head in flashes. Snapshots. At the bar. Drinking. Dancing. Drinking. Making out. Drinking. It's all coming back now. The mortification spurs me into action.

I stealthily slide my body from underneath the leg. The leg that belongs to... erm.. uh.. Jason! Yes, that's his name. A friend of Natalie's boyfriend. Eep! I cringe in shame, recalling my amorous acts of the night before. A snapshot of me in the midst of an impromptu stripper imitation developes, polaroid style in my brain. This memory, not one for the scrapbook I assure you, is interrupted by still another flashback of me doing tequila shots. Tequila? I don't drink tequila. Do I?

I worm to the edge of the strange bed, snake a hand out the side of the sheet, and claw hopefully, then desperately for my bra. No dice. My fingers do close around my jean mini skirt, which I promptly shimmy into, taking extra care not to wake my sleeping companion. I know Jason. Somewhat. We'd cross paths occasionally at Natalie's parties. Not an asshole, he's nice enough. He's a generic guy. The everyboy. Not loud and funny, not quiet and mysterious. Just there. Not much personality. Apparently he had enough for my drunken libido last night.

The urge to pee is painful and although I want to flee the scene of last nights crime, my small bladder trumps.. and triumphs. I bolt from the bed and grab my shirt which is crumpled onto his bookshelf (at least he reads) and tiptoe into the hallway where surely a bathroom can be found.

I hover above the toilet like I would a public loo. Bachelor boy bathroom, yeck! I run the water in the sink to disguise the unflattering sound of me peeing. After what seems like ten minutes I'm finished. I reach for the toiletpaper only to discover an empty cardboard roll mocking me from it's perch on top the counter. A quick scan under the sink confirms the absence of toiletpaper although I briefly consider wiping with the cover of one of the carefully stacked porno mags I spot. Drip dry. I wave my arse about then button up and move to the sink, all the while listening for movement in the rest of the unfamiliar house.

My reflection reveals the full extent of the previous night's debauchery. I look every inch a zombie bride. Blonde hair, once carefully styled into a sleek ponytail (so I could wear my dangly earrings of course!) has come to rest somewhere in between an updo and a rat's nest. A snapshot develops of me whipping my hair out of the ponytail in the middle of my imitation stripper dance. Oh GAWD! My carefully crafted eye make-up now hovers in clumps, raccoon like, in the vicinity of my eyes. And cheeks. And nearly my ears. I swish water around in my mouth, wipe around my eyes, terrified whomever lives with Jason will decide this is a great time to relieve themselves.

I inch open the door and peer into the hall. Coast clear, I tiptoe jog back to Jason's room where he is (thank god!) still sleeping. I spot my purse at the foot of the bed. A cursory search turns up my strappy shoes which I hang over my wrist like extra large charm bracelets.

Just when I'm about to leave the bra behind as a casualty of whore, I spot it peeping out form behind the nightstand.. or rather the black crate serving as nightstand. I jam the lingerie into my purse and flee the scene.

Success! Maybe Jason won't remember last night! But it wasn't meant to be. On my way out the front door I run smack into Jason's roommate Travis. Travis is actually another guy that's a friend of Natalie's boyfriend.. Except for I've always had a bit of a crush on Travis. I didn't know he lives with Jason. Way-ell, I can kiss that crush goodbye. A firefighter, Traivs is apparently returning from his overnight shift. He recoils in horror at my appearance, then recognizing a Walk of Shame when he sees one, a smirk develops.
"Heeeeey Monica!"
"Bye Travis." And with that I am off to nurse my wounds with coffee. At some point greasy food will be needed... and lots of sleep. Thank god it's Saturday!

Reader Comments (7)

oh the walk of shame. My personal favorite is doing it from one end of campus to the other. Fabulous!
October 17, 2005 | Unregistered CommenterHeather B.
At my college, the Walk of Shame was having to walk home from the boy's side of the apartment complex to the girl's side of the apartment complex and just pray that nobody saw you. :)
October 17, 2005 | Unregistered CommenterAnother Monica
Awesomely written, if that's even a word. :) I like the cardbord toilet roll at its perch.. priceless!

I only really had one walk of shame, and it's not cuz I'm such a good girl, I just never got a lot of play (unfortunet for lots of men out there) but instead of hair being a rat's nest like yours it was a Jackson five afro! I have reeeeeaaallly curly hair and that summer i had cut it short like a little cute fro. But when the cuteness rubbed all over the pillow at night, well the next morning it was MJ fro, if you touched me I would probebly electricute you from the static friction, I had to run to the bathroom and spritz it with liqued gel, prayed he thought that's actually what I looked like when I wake up and then found out a way to kick him out so I can try to remember the night before in peace. LOL.
October 17, 2005 | Unregistered CommenterJulia
Mon - when all else fails in that situation, use the actual cardboard roll as a "blotter" of sorts, then throw that in the wastebasket. Worked for me.
October 17, 2005 | Registered Commentertallchickbarbara
Haha! The infamous walk of shame.
October 17, 2005 | Unregistered CommenterValleyGirl
The walk of shame is even worse when you have to take the train home from Harlem to Far Rockaway and the train stops running 7 stops from home because of a faulty suspension bridge. Now that situation is just heinous. So I've heard.
July 25, 2006 | Unregistered CommenterLiz
So you've heard. Ha!
July 25, 2006 | Registered CommenterMonicaBielanko

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