New York is the worst city in the country for the Walk of Shame. There’s more people to witness your shame and it’s not like you can just hop in your car and drive your ass to your front door. You have to walk home or take the subway. You can get a cab but you still have to stand there on the street corner drawing stares while you try to hail one and then it’s going to cost you. How much is it worth to you to avoid the shame? $5? $10?
My friend Jessica went to a wedding at the Pierre hotel Saturday night and woke up at her boyfriend’s apartment late this afternoon. She cowered on his couch till the sun went down, put her party dress and peep-toe pumps back on and then finally went home, pretending she was on her way to a Sunday night black tie event.
It reminded me of this time a few years ago when I hooked up with this guy I'd been seeing after a cocktail party. At 7 a.m. the next morning I prepared to get the hell out of his apartment, fancy dress, strappy heels and all. Just as I was about to walk out the front door, I stopped. Out in the hallway of his apartment building were male voices, followed by some grunting and a scraping sound. Movers. Shit. Someone was moving at 7 in the freakin’ moanin’ on a Saturday. In a moment I was about to step out into the hallway, these dudes were going to take one look at me and know the whole story.
“Just own it,” I told myself.
I walked out the door, faced the three enormous moving guys standing before me, holding my hands up as if to surrender. “Walk of shame, boys!” I announced. “Walk of shame!”
“Ain’t no shame in that, girl!” one of them said. Then they all high-fived me as I walked past.