The Ultimate Walk of Shame

Walk of Shame: The morning trek home after a night out; wink wink the implication is that you slept at someone elses house ie hooched it up; a true walk is adorned with some sort of sequined top or minidress, high heels, and sleep smudged black eyeliner. (in some cases it might involve a little green flowy, booby, brintey spears inspired top that you don’t change out of before meeting your parents for breakfast. Not to name names. Kristen.)

But the ultimate walk of shame my friends, I have redefined as the lonely, stumbling, drooling walk home while still recovering from general anesthetic.

I have been lucky enough to make this walk twice during my time here in Mozambique.

The first, after my sneak attack cyst removal surgery. My doctor had told me it would be a simple procedure with local anesthetic. Then I arrived, and next thing you know I was topless, IV in hand, and falling asleep.

This time, it was my first endoscopy, but at least I knew the anesthetic was coming. Dose 1, not enough.

“OK, give her another. This girl just doesn’t want to sleep”

Dose 2, I was awake long enough to realize they were rolling me on my side and then I was out like a trout.

I woke up just in time to experience the doctor pulling the endoscopy scope out of my mouth, and stick some paper towels in my hand so that I could wipe up the mucus that was spouting out of my mouth. They were purple paper towels. “Where do you get purple paper towels?” I thought to myself. Well, I don’t really remember the scope coming out and the purple paper towels, but I remember remembering them. If that makes any sense. Like I was awake enough to know that it was happening but it’s all a little hazy and dreamlike because I was still dopey. As is the walk home. Praise the lordy I wasn’t mugged or something.

After waking up (sort of) all I wanted to was lie in the puddle of my own mucus and drool on myself while clutching my ineffective purple paper towels. But Dr. Little Miss Pushy pulled me up out of bed, “ok, lets go, time to get up,” and semi-carried me to the waiting room where she plopped me down right next to all the swanky white clients waiting for their appointments. Well, I might have been drugged, but I could tell that the little scraggly drooling volunteer in the corner was a little out of place in swankville. I mean, I wouldn’t want to get my mucus on their Gucci or anything, so I sort of launched myself out of the chair, mumbled an “Ok, I think I can go now,” in what I think was Portuguese, but it very well could have been English or gibberish, and stumbled down the stairs out of swankville.

I remember feeling awfully proud to not have fallen down the stairs on my way out, and for the rest of the walk concentrated on picking up my feet, counting my steps, and trying not to vomit.

I made it to the Peace Corps office in what felt like a few hours, with no face-plants and no vomiting. And then promptly collapsed on the couch and fell asleep.

Two walks of shame down. Go for the hat trick?