Image courtesy of Girl Two Doors Down, via Instagram
*To my parents and in-laws: LOOK AWAY NOW PLEASE*
We interrupt our regular broadcast for a look at this blogger’s pre-marriage, pre-baby, pre-suburbs life.
There’s something about today – maybe it’s the weather, the softness of the morning light, or last night’s red wine still fogging up my brain. It’s most likely a combination of all three. But it brought back a memory that I wanted to share.
This memory involves a walk of shame. (Seriously, mother-in-law, I love you dearly but if you’re still reading this PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP NOW BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE)
Real talk: I did my fair share of shame-walking back in my early 20s. I was young, single, and testing my boundaries.
When you’re a woman in your early 20s, you’re expected to be a certain kind of girl (sigh). The kind of girl who never does that sort of thing but then there were these fruity drinks and he was so cute and yadda yadda yadda ….
The next morning, you walk home in the clothes you wore to the bar the night before. Your BFF drags the dirty details out of you that afternoon. Coy ingenue that you are, you relate these details muffled by a pillow in which you’ve half-buried your face (a face, mind you, that has blushed an appropriate shade of zinfandel).
Even now, I want to tell you this didn’t happen often so you won’t judge me too much. But how often it happened isn’t really anyone’s business, so I won’t tell you if it was just this once or if it was a thousand times. Maybe it was never and this is all made up.
Or … maybe it isn’t.
The particular walk I’m remembering took place in Victoria, about a hundred million years ago (I’m very old, you guys). It was early morning. Early summer. I remember sunlight filtering through the leaves, gems of dew on the grass, and sprinklers set out in the yards, their water spilling over onto the sidewalk.
My el cheapo going-out shoes gave out, so I took them off and hobbled home barefoot. It probably goes without saying that my feet were in rough shape by the time I got home. It was a very long walk, on a very textured sidewalk.
They call it the walk of shame because you’re supposed to be ashamed, or at least act like you are, to keep up the facade of the kind of girl this world wants you to be. But if I’m being honest … it was actually a lot of fun (aside from the blisters, that is).
If I had it to do over again, I’d probably do a Walk of No Shame instead. Like this one.
I’d be dolled up in something short and maybe backless, and a pair of these glamorous black flip flops from Girl Two Doors Down – which I wouldn’t need to remove because they’re both stylish and comfortable. I’d probably even have chosen them with the Walk of No Shame in mind, because I’d own that walk.
I’d traipse up the sidewalk, flippity flopping past the stately homes with their manicured lawns and grinning from ear to ear. I might even call my best friend to tell her about it, unprompted.
These days there are no more walks of shame (or Walks of No Shame) for me. At this point a walk of shame would probably involve being at the grocery store with a screaming baby, covered in spit-up and unaware that my boob has popped out of my t-shirt. Goodness, how life has changed. On a related note, I think it’s pretty clear that it’s time to step up my game, fashion-wise.
Then I remember the red dress hanging in my closet, and the fact that our anniversary date night is coming up. If I order those flip flops now, they should get here in time …
We probably won’t walk home from dinner, but there will definitely be No Shame – if you catch my drift.
Maybe I can have a do-over after all.
Oh my goodness, help. I’m so not good with options. Which flip flops should I get? Which ones would you order? Check out Girl Two Doors Down and comment below.
I wrote this post for the blogging mentorship course I’m taking, where I was challenged to write a branded narrative. I was not compensated for the post … but I’m open to it, if you’re a brand or business and you want to work with me and pay me money and stuff.