I viewed a lot of people doing The Walk of Shame throughout this sporadic long weekend. You know the look: dazed, 100 metre stare with much regret behind their eyes; wrinkled clothes that just don’t look right in the full light of day (leather pants? In 25C heat?); and the shuffling that comes with the combination of too much alcohol and bruise-making sex.
It got me to thinking: What’s the best way to get back home and avoid street level embarrassment?
Here’s my hints and tips!
Leave early. Know that the traffic starts to pick up after 7am. Get out that door and giving yourself enough time to walk home while wearing those obvious clothes (unless you’ve worn ass-less chaps the night before, take a cab. No commuter who may spy your journey home, no matter what their sexual orientation, will take you seriously).
Consider your route home. If you have to walk by a school or playground or catty outdoor cafe full of hip young things, be prepared to feel the icy sting of comments and stares landing squarely on your back.
Don’t sleep there when the deed is done. Save yourself the trouble and pain. No mater how drunk, get your ass out of there.
Don’t spend all your money the night before. Taxis, while recently have increased their fares, are still great for avoiding the long walk home. If your one night stand lives in Scarborough and you live downtown, stop drinking appropriately.
Find a bush and finish up there. This way, nobody gets robbed. Nobody has to sneak glances at letters in the hallway to remember a name. Nobody gets breakfast. Downside: dog poop on your butt.
Steal. When your host is in the loo, steal a clean t-shirt. Unless you’re a chubby chasing, rail thin guy, you may want to steal a washcloth.
I hope I’ve helped you in some small way today.
I’m a horrible gift giver. I’ve mentioned before that I buy things I want to get, which is subconsciously greedy, I know. But if I manage to get things the receiver actually wants (usually through HEAVY hinting and suggestion), I always manage to destroy the act of surprise.
I drop too many cautionary suggestions (“You know those underwear you liked? I think you should just forget about buying them.”); or I ask too many questions (“That camera you looked at last week. Did it have a serial number you can remember off the top of your head?”); or in the case of home-made, hear felt gifts, I execute their creation waaay too early (“You may want to wear this now – it’s a scarf I made you!”); or I just leave the damn things lying around without trying to hide them (“What’s this Charlie’s Angels Season One doing here?”), all resulting in the most anti-climactic surprise for the recipient.
So when I finished wrapping the gifts last night for someone’s impending birthday, this someone systematically picked them up and one by one and identified nearly each gift:
(Fondle) “That book I wanted.”
(Shake) “Socks. Probably green.”
(Lift, bend) “That t-shirt I said I liked.”
(Hold, weigh) “Not sure.”
(Hold, poke) “Not sure.”
(Passing to side) “Charlie’s Angels.”
(Passing to side) “Charlie’s Angels.”
(Lift, bend) “Padded CD case?”
My own fault, really. I can’t go up against the master. He had my iPhone sitting beside my bed (hardly hidden) for at least 3 weeks before my birthday with not one mention or hint to me about it. Subsequently I was blindsided, twice (he got me a decoy gift which he also didn’t let on, but gave to me early – the Wii). Cool as a cucumber, he sat on these gifts for a long time without hint of their impending coolness.
Me? I think in terms of the happiness. I’m bursting to see the payoff, but I get disappointed when the recipient makes the all too easy connection: “Want to see what I got you? No? Darn! It’s really cool! It makes toast and is toaster-like! What? No. It’s not a toaster! Fttt!”