The majority of us didn’t get through college without at least one walk of shame. Some girls I knew walk-of-shamed so much they started carrying around spare underwear and an extra pair of flats, as well as one of those M-F pill cases fully stocked with Plan B and breath mints.
While we are talking about it though, I actually have a huge problem with the term walk of shame. If you managed to get laid last night, you did what almost everyone at the bar wanted to do. So what if you are strutting around at 9 am with a weave track clipped to your New York Yankees sweater and heels so high that you nearly get clocked in the face by an airplane from Malaysia; you have earned the right to wear whatever you want.
Some of my best relationships have originated from seeming one-night-stands, and some of my best stories come from the morning after. If you ask me, the phrase walk of shame should be retired, and replaced with stride of pride.
After all, getting your cakes pounded by some rando is nothing to be ashamed of.
