sister friend (who shall, of course, remain anonymous) had a very memorable walk of shame a few weeks back. For anyone who thinks hopping in an uber in 5-inch heels at 9 AM is bad, this might help put your feelings of shame in perspective.
It all started when my friend went out with a group on the Friday of Halloween. She dressed up as a triathlete (mostly because she had the outfit from participating in her fifth triathlon the weekend prior) and headed out for an evening of costume contests, candy, and booze.
Towards the end of the night, she met up with a boy she’d gone on a handful of dates with and ended up back at his place, hammered.
They stumbled in the door, kicked off their shoes, fooled around, and passed out.
The next morning, the guy had to head out early for a tailgate with old friends from high school and left her sleeping in his bed. Grateful for the chance to recover, she slept off the worst of her hangover and woke up around 11 still slightly drunk and completely bewildered. She threw her clothes on haphazardly and searched high and low for her shoes but couldn’t find them.
Desperate to get out and soak up the lingering booze with some coffee and carbs, she called the guy and asked if he knew where her shoes were. He couldn’t remember exactly where she’d left them but suggested she venture beyond his bedroom in her search. Sure enough, they were lying in the middle of the living room.
As she was lacing up her sneakers and attempting to hurry out the door, his roommates sleepily emerged from their rooms. They watched her fumble with her shoes as she awkwardly tried to introduce herself.
“Hey, um hi,” she stammered. “Ummm sorry I’m really hungover. You might be seeing more of me? Me and this guy, we’re kind of a thing… I think?” Her brain felt cloudy. Her tongue heavy.
They looked her up and down. “Are you going jogging?” one of them asked incredulously.
“Ohhh, no no, just my costume…” she mumbled, feeling nauseous at the thought of a run.
They smirked knowingly and exchanged glances, “Ahhh, right”.
“K, byeee,” she trilled, as she shot out the front door.
She raced out of the apartment and slammed the door behind her, relieved to escape the cringeworthy chit chat.
In her blackout state the night before, she couldn’t remember if they’d come up stairs or an elevator. What floor was she even on, anyway?
She glanced around and spotted a glowing exit sign that indicated a nearby stairwell. She walked down several flights when she noticed the entrance to a terrace and figured it looked promising. There seemed to be a gate down some steps at the far end. Unfortunately, when she investigated further, it turned out the gate was chained shut. Also, as she peered over the edge, she realized she was on the second floor — a solid 20+ feet off the ground. Not good.
She turned around and walked back the way she came only to discover that the door to the stairwell had locked behind her and she needed a fob to get back in the building.
She had three options.
1. She could call the boy back and ask him to contact his roommates and have one of them rescue her. (This would be mortifying since she already called him earlier that morning about her missing shoes… Also, not the best way to make a good impression on the roommates.)
2. She could jump over the terrace ledge to the concrete below, which would likely result in serious injury or death considering she was several stories up and still intoxicated from the night before.
3. Or, option three – she could attempt to scale the 12-foot wrought iron fence she had initially spotted down the small set of stairs at the bottom of the terrace.
After an internal debate that her brain was not sober or awake enough to handle, she settled on the third option.
She backed up, got a running start, and launched herself up and over the gate, scrambling to avoid the iron spikes.
She careened over to the other side, grunting from the impact, and rolled several feet across the sidewalk before coming to a rest just a couple feet away from a group of construction workers. They peered down at her curiously.
She picked herself up, dusted off her hands, and gave her audience a hearty salute. Good morning Miami!
It was a beautiful day and she was free! She stopped for a bagel and a coffee at a café down the block and strolled the three miles back to her apartment looking like a badass in her triathlon apparel.
It was so much more than your run-of-the-mill walk of shame. It was, after all, her first time dabbling with the art of parkour.