It was the topic of very first essay I published, thirteen or so books ago. It dealt with the shame I felt when realizing a woman was taking the walk of shame away from me, and that I was responsible for a significant portion of her shame. Guess it could be worse–it could be a jog of shame … while crying.
Well, I have a few more years under my expanding belt, and there are a few aspects of this walk that can actually be pride-worthy (on my part):
- If she is carrying undergarments.
- If she looks back and winks.
- If she’s limping.
- If she stops midway, pivots, returns, throws me on the floor, and fucks the dog out of me one more time, just for kicks.
I still wonder what goes through the typical woman’s mind during the walk. When I took the walk, my concern used to be where I left my genetic bullets. Now, my mind is mostly occupied with finding the nearest apple fritter, and if I’ll ever get past level 33 in Candy Crush.
(Oh, and here’s a great big “fuck you” for the makers of Candy Crush. *Sweet* You pricks. I’m not paying. *Tasty* I’ll sit on the toilet, and have my legs fall asleep for an entire fucking year before giving you some of my not-so-hard-earned money. The least you could do is show me a random topless woman instead of that stupid crying heart telling me I need to wait twenty minutes before trying again. Bastards! Piss me off. I hope a truck full of Pez dispensers smashes into your office and explodes red die #40 over your programmers, turning them into cannibalistic zombies. *Deee-licious*)
But, I digress.
My senses are more numb now, but my feelings are still a bit twinged. I’m wondering if there are ways I can make that walk less shameful for her (except for the obvious one where we actually develop sincere emotional feelings toward each other). I suppose I could ride her out to her car on an electric scooter. Nah. That would be exponential shame. Well, I have come up with a few:
- Make one of my epic cappuccinos for her in a drip-safe to-go mug.
- Have a Christmas tree up year-round with a stack of boxes from which she may select her parting gift.
- Sneak out during the night, and place a few scratch-off lottery tickets under her windshield wiper.
- Leave a trail of jellybeans (the fruit ones, not the disgusting spice ones) leading to her car. Fuck. Never mind. Ants.
- Get up before her, launder her clothing, and leave them folded neatly on her nightstand with a pink bow.
It’s no use. The safest bet is to either get her out before sunrise, or give up home-field advantage, and take the walk myself.