What Color Is My Shame?

This turned out to be an interesting weekend. I have a shame headache (I'll explain but just know that it's super painful and consuming) so this post is just going to be free form stream of consciousness Virgina Wolfesque. If Virginia ever happened to be into the kinkier side of life.

I learned a couple things about myself this weekend. No, no, don't get excited, I still don't know what color my parachute is. Side note, next person who tells me I should read that book gets it between the eyes. I have a theory that no one has ever read it. I think the propagation of the myth that this book solves anything besides what to do with that extra $20 we all have lying around is perhaps one of the greatest money-making coup detat of our generation. I'm going to write a book called I'll Tell You What Color Your Parachute Is If You Give Me $15, try and scoop up part of that market. I did, however, learn that I am a bit of a freak. More on that in a moment.

Friday night started out innocently enough with a nice relaxing 2500 meter swim. I was high on post workout endorphins. I was loving life. I went into the locker room afterward to shower and head home to watch Dateline and drink red wine from Trader Joe's. Ya know, cause it was Friday. I closed the door behind me. I repeat I CLOSED the door. I took my bathing suit off in one of the bathroom stalls and remembered my towel was still on the bench in front of my locker. Meh, I closed the door, it's cool. It's a locker room. I'll just pop over and grab it au naturale. I open the stall door to do the naked scoot over to my towel. Mid-scoot, I realized the door was now all the way open and I was standing there giving full frontal to the pool deck. By my calculations, oh, about 3-5 people got that show. Apparently, the maid Maria is a bit of a stealthy ninja. As I am standing mouth agape, Maria springs from the ether and says "Oh. You want that I should close door?".

Sigh. Nah, not now, it's fine, that's over. Leave it open.

That really set the tone for the weekend.

I'm still piecing together exactly what happened last night. I don't know exactly what I drank, but judging by how I feel today, I'm going with All Of It. It started out innocently enough. I went with a couple lady friends to see another friend's stand up show. I think here is a good time to mention that I had not had sex since sometime in 2010.(Sex has not been Cheap for Me Dr. Smug from aforementioned Slate article). I thought I was doing relatively OK with this fact. Turns out, there has actually been a section of my brain just not getting any blood. Something I drank last night woke it up, and well, that part of my brain wanted to have sex everywhere with a cute relative stranger. I'm not going to claim to know all the details. That would be lying, and I won't do that to you.

I woke up in my apartment face down in my own bed. Good start. I was however cringing like a vampire at the light beginning to stream in through my bedroom window. Then I started the painful process of remembering why I felt like vacating my own skin. Oh. Oh. OH. I slept with cute comedian friend of my friend last night. That's not so bad you might say, and you'd be right, cept there's more.

I texted him when I started to remember the details "Can we please agree to tell this story differently..." He said: "In a stall a hall and a car. It's like our own Planes Trains and Automobiles. Then you lost your shoe like pornderella". Here is a good time to impart a bit of wisdom all single ladies should hear. Do not sleep with comics unless you are down with becoming part of the act. He travels the country and is moderately successful so if you ever happen to hear about Pornderella, well, ya'll will now know where that came from... Hoorah.

I live this pain so you don't have to...

Anyway, as the hangover has evolved and progressed (I swear this one is epic. I have detected 3 levels of misery that each make me want to volunteer to help cool the reactor) I started to remember things. I hate that. I had a vague memory of us going at it in a hotel bathroom, no one had been in there, but then a group of hammered ladies walked in. We stopped and I suited up and told him to shhhhh. I am pretty sure I made the Shhhh noise. For the record, there is almost nothing louder than someone making the shhh sound. Nice. My "plan" was to go out and casually leave and he could come out in a couple minutes.

I have a distinct memory of his smirk as he sauntered out of the stall. The group of party girls stopped, and in my memory, the ringleader said "Not cool. I'm gonna tell."

Horror.

So, I texted him and told him about this memory hoping he would say, nah, that didn't happen, silly worrier! Instead, he says her actual response was: "I veto that!"

Thanks anonymous girl who caught me hooking up in the hotel ladies room. You were right. I could not say it any better myself. Sober me would like to veto that as well. But alas, can't be done. I have a friend who has coined a new word. Unf#*k. It's the lurid companion to unfriend. It probably needs no further explanation. This morning, I thought for a bit about how nice it would have been to hit the Unf*#k button on this one...

Now I'm thinking, probably good I did it now. If this is what happened after a 6 month drought... I shudder to think what would happen if we approached a year. I'm going to bed now. I'm hoping the shame headache will subside by tomorrow AM. I am also hoping he meant it when he swore he wouldn't tell our mutual friends about our sexcapdes. My guess? One of those things won't be true in the morning.