The morning after...

It’s time for the walk of shame.

Slowly my eyes open to let in some light. I know something’s different—the feeling in the pit of my stomach signals something is amiss. I swing my legs around, rubbing my eyes and willing my mind to recall last night’s horrors. What could I have done to warrant this barrage of shame?

And then I remember.

I glance down at my bed. There he is. Asleep.

Crap.

I reach over and pick up his thin frame. He’s cold. It’s a 180-degree change from last night. We were up all night. And he was burning me up…

“Clive—wake up,” I command. Nothing. Frantically, I punch his buttons. “Wake up!”

Finally the little apple lights up and the Macintosh song begins—usually something I love to hear. Now something I just want to shut up.

I open my Internet browser—nervously hit my facebook short cut and wait for the inevitable. I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I actually did it. Did I really do it?

And there it is. The most awkward facebook message I have ever received. The fruit of my folly. The consequence of my self-perceived invincibility. Why, oh, why did I feel the need to face my past like this?

The message: “Hi…um…I think I remember you…didn’t you follow me into the men’s bathroom once? You were so weird!”

Why I felt compelled to facebook friend my middle school crush I will never know. Maybe I wanted him to know that while he was flipping burgers—I was in NYC. And while he was probably still the cutest boy on the planet—I wasn’t too bad myself. And after years of following him (sometimes into the men’s restroom) I was now a sophisticated woman who didn’t need to follow anyone, anywhere. Well…not usually anyway.

I hate facebook. I hate Alfredo. And right now, I hate my laptop, that my college friends affectionately (or not so affectionately) named Clive.

I close my laptop with a bang. I don’t need some creepy restaurant manager wanna-be messing with my already fragile psyche. The last thing I need right now is to relive middle school.
And then I realize I haven’t had my coffee. Something tells me this will be a lot less of an issue with a skinny vanilla latte in my hands. After all—his name is Alfredo. He’s had it rough too. Maybe I should cut him some slack?