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Mascara smeared. Heels in hand. Not-so-attractive post-coital bed head.
Another Saturday morning.
Another walk of shame. Without the shame, of course.
I’ve definitely gotten smarter about it, too. Checking the weather beforehand is probably one of my proudest planning maneuvers. I learned that lesson the hard way when I had to haul my sopping wet behind three blocks in the pouring rain at 6 a.m. a few months ago. And packing travel ballet flats in my clutch next to my pepper spray and condoms is a pretty genius move, if I do say so myself.
Not every Friday night ends in a hookup, but when they do, I’m nothing if not prepared.
Most weekends, it’s just me and my friend Jesse, dancing and people watching, releasing the tension from a long week of classes, internship hours, volunteer shifts, and the like. Some nights, I’ll act as J’s wing woman, and occasionally, like last night, someone will strike my fancy and, voila!, the potential for a late night playdate. Then I have to decide between the comfort of my apartment or an excursion.
Meaning, we head back to his place for the night.
Meaning, I rock the walk of shame instead of sleeping on my 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
If I go back to his, I don’t have to worry about disturbing my roommate, soiling my precious sheets, or engaging the awkward morning after exchange. I can sneak out whenever I want. And, while my apartment is cozy and familiar and mine, the idea of bringing some random into my personal space still makes my stomach twist, and not in a good way.
So far, excursions have always won out.
Last night went well, too. After my pep talk, I only had to do one grounding exercise, and that’s a big improvement from some of my previous, uh, excursions. I suppose if I’m going to keep this up, attempting to bring a guy back to my place would be a logical next step.
Just to see how it goes.
I should take a closer look at the pros and cons. Compare my notes from the last few times. I’ll have to work it all out tonight. My head is too fuzzy to make sense of it now, and I’ll need a couple of cups of coffee in my system before I can really dive in.
As I continue the trek up the block to meet my Uber, my phone vibrates in my clutch.
I don’t even have to look at the Caller ID to see who it is.
Six a.m. on a Saturday and my best friend is still on top of my mess.
Before I even say hello, Kelley speaks.
“Ivy.”