Ladies, we all know the feeling. It’s 9 am, you open your eyes, and you don’t recognize your surroundings. And you also don’t remember how your thong wound up in your hair. There’s a man next to you, his name may or may not be James, and he may or may not be the owner of the hand that is rested, sweaty palm side up, on your face, which is so comfortable for everyone involved. You notice he has a pinky ring on because it’s wedging itself into your nostril. While pondering this man’s “winner” status, your mission becomes clear: leave the apartment (or suburban home- are those birds chirping?Â ) without waking Pinky Ring Sweat Palm.
The only thing you’re looking forward to more than leaving, is leaving in your clothes from last night. You know, the ones strewn about the room. The ones that smell like cigarettes, beer, SoCo, and something unidentifiable but resembling “Flame,” the Burger King cologne (and why do you suddenly know what that smells like). The ones you ripped off last night before Pinky Ring Sweat Palm turned back into the lovechild of a gopher and the Elephant Man at the stroke of midnight (or 8 am). And the pumps. Oh God, the pumps. One glance at your feet and you look like you hiked K2 in your Loubs. Funny, you don’t remember pain last night. Pain or, anything. As you slowly peel back the comforter and disassemble the ancient hair-thong puzzle perched on your head, Pinky Ring Sweat Palm stirs threateningly next to you. You pause, and try practicing the “back breathing” that ballerinas do to minimize breathing-induced movement. It fails, and you cough. Those anorexic bitches think they know everything. You think Pinky Ring Sweat Palm has woken, but luckily, he just farted. Only in the sick world of morning-after hookups is a sweaty man-fart preferable to something else. You gag, and release yourself from the catacomb of sheets entangling your body. One shoe, two shoes, bra, skirt, dress, bag. Phone? Phone? Missing! As much as you want to escape, you will never leave a man behind! On your hands and knees, you rummage through week-old laundry comprised of clothing only Pinky Ring Sweat Palm would wear: shirts with their collars still popped and belts with Western-themed buckles. FML. Finally, you see a blinking red light and, like a beacon in the night, you crawl towards it and snatch it like the holy grail. You run, phone tucked under your arm like Eli Manning with a football, towards the door. As you try desperately to hail a cab, a priest, a rabbi, your middle school teacher, and 4th grade babysitter all pass by, staring at your slutty outfit, all keenly aware of what you’re doing and what you did. Pulling down your skirt doesn’t help, you still look like a whore.
If only there was something to make this entire process a bit easier because, let’s be honest, you’re going to do it again tomorrow night. Enter “The Walk of Shame Kit.” This genius tub contains everything a girl needs to survive those less-than-pleasant morning afters. It contains: a dress, flip flops, a backpack, sunglasses, pre-pasted toothbrush, wipes, call/don’t call note card, and a breast cancer awareness bracelet (a portion of sales is donated to a breast cancer foundation). Genius! If only the kit contained a dignity-repairer as well.