the re-invented walk of shame

I just experienced a whole new different walk of shame. And the sad thing is, I immediately thought of it as blog fodder.

I live in a fairly hip and young area of Dallas. One of my most favorite perks of the hood is the close proximity (see: stumbling distance) of several of my favorite bars in the city. Come Friday night, the patios are full and plenty of merry-makers are slutting around in their tight jeans looking for the next real estate mogul to buy them a vodka soda. It's a hoot.

However, tonight I have deemed myself sick and am looking forward to a nice night in with the Puppy and my Slanket. But as for sustenance... what to do? Luckily, amongst all the trendy hot-spots there is one beacon of flourescent-lit stability and convenience: the Henderson Grocery. I trekked on over in my sweatpants and fleece, pitying the poor girls who deigned to get all gussied up just to go out and search for dudes. They were in heels! I was in tennis shoes! I am a single gal about town who can't be bothered with Friday night nonsense! If I want to stay at home and be sick, so be it!

After I walked out the door and faced the two-story patio across the street, I realized that I was embarking on the new school walk of shame. I walked right on past all the porch-dwellers and valet guys carrying my fun Friday night in a brown paper sack: a box of macaroni and cheese, a bottle of wine and a pack of Parliament Lights.

I should probably go back and get some AAs for my vibrator.