That moment when you wake up to a throbbing-cottonwool-filled head, open your eyes, realize you did not sleep in your own bed and wonder “What exactly happened last night?”. We’ve all been there at some point, or will be there at some point, in our lives.
I know what you are all thinking; discarded clothing, disheveled sheets, drunken sexual escapades. The walk of shame. Or perhaps the stroll of success. There is always the possibility you might have woken to some delicious male specimen, taken him for another test ride, and strolled home knowing you were fucking successful last night*.
But this was neither the walk of shame, nor the stroll of success. The best nights are never when you end up in the arms of a man (well maybe some of them are); they end crashing in your friend’s bed, on their couch, or perhaps floor (if you ended up on the floor you might want to reconsider your friendship). That is exactly what happened last night. My friend Olivia had declared we were having wine, and we had, well… lots of wine ( lots more wine than cheese). I was smashed, inebriated, well trollied. I know I drank too much, because I had the sudden revelation that a teapot looks like a fat man with an erection (if you cannot see how a teapot looks like a fat man with an erection, you are NOT drunk enough!). I lost sensation in my arms at one point, and realized that Addison and I need to keep fat pants at Olivia’s house (It’s just not fair when she is wearing fat pants, and I’m stuck in my skinny jeans!). I could go on, but hopefully you’ve got the point.
However, regardless of where (or with whom) you slept, the outcome is the same. You have to walk home, in the same outfit you were wearing last night. You stumble outside, the morning sun making your blood-shot eyes sting and water. Your make-up is smudged, and your hair which, last night, was carefully styled to look like you “just got out of bed, and don’t give a shit about your hair” is now the genuine deal (imagine something that more closely resembles electrocution than just getting out of bed). You’re paranoid about walking too close to anyone incase they notice that awful stench of stale alcohol and BO (shower urgently required!!!). And if you are a lucky soul like me, you will be a snotty snuffly sneezy mess because you were unable to take your allergy meds last night. So what do we call it when its neither the stroll of success nor the walk of shame?
There were many reasons that we decided to drink on Friday night. Work and study is stressful. Olivia was upset over some “alty-salty” she hasn’t been having the best of luck with (alty – alternative salty-sexily alternative). Addison was feeling lonely. I’ve been having trouble dealing with my ex long-term-boyfriend cheating on me with a 25 year old girl who works at McDonalds. But despite all of this, we had a brilliant evening. There is nothing in life that can create more fun and mischeif, brighten the end of any shit week, and bring more happiness than spending a friday night with your girl friends.
So what do we call it? The hike of happiness.
* Feminist Rage: According to Urban Dictionary the stroll of success is the “Guy’s version of the Walk of Shame” . I know that Urban Dictionary isn’t a reputable source. However, if you look through the wonderful world of the internet you will find over and over that the “walk of shame” is repeatably seen to be a female leaving a male’s house. While the “stroll of success” is a male leaving a female’s place. How is it success for a male to get laid, and shameful for a female? Surely we have reached a point of female sexual enlightenment in which a man or a woman can feel equally successful or ashamed of a sexual encounter (according to the surrounding circumstances). Rant over.