I park my car in the most readily available curbside location, in front of the apartment next to my complex. I grab my bag, my very large "medium" cherry coke (Del Taco's generous contribution to the American fat-ass), and bag of delux chili cheese fries- hangover elixir of champions; I am vaguely aware that I am wearing oversized sunglasses on the cloudiest of days and have mascara smudged under my eyes and super sultry J.B.F. hair.
As I make my way heavily in my high heeled boots, I become aware that a man... a mover or construction worker... across the parking lot is watching me, judging me. I meet his gaze straight on, as if to say "What? This is no walk of shame here." Sure it's a tired walk, a slightly nauseated walk. But a so-called "Walk of Shame" is only such if the previous night's activities involved highly inappropriate sexual contact with someone you just met that day/night/week (not that I'd know anything about that). Take away that element and you've evaporated the shame right out of that walk of yours.