Celebratory Affy Tapples

Once upon a year ago today, I woke up half-naked and hungover in a bed that wasn’t my own, struggling - I mean, really struggling - to decide if putting the fishnet stockings from the previous night’s costume back on would help or hurt the military short shorts and knee high black boots I’d have to wear past Henry the Doorman while leaving the bed that wasn’t my own’s apartment building.
Even in the barely lit room, the nearby mirror reflected that my hair was still in the bouffant hairstyle I had so carefully coiffed the night before to look just like Kim Jung Il’s. (I know what you’re thinking, how does this girl manage to stay so classy and aware of current affairs?)

The owner of the bed that wasn’t my own remained asleep while I decided against the stockings.

Seconds before leaving his apartment, I began to feel utter horror realizing that walking out of that apartment meant walking around in public - in daylight public, in 7:15 a.m. daylight public - wearing a slutty Kim Jung Il costume that had seemed absolute genius the night before.

The gods did not disappoint.

There are walks of shame, and then there are walks of shame that include:

• traveling in elevators with investment bankers who wink and tell you that their job forces them to wake up early too;
• breezing past the doorman who you’ve come to adore because he refers to you as his mon chéri!;
• learning that indeed one can get goosebumps on their knees;
• pulling down your waist-length military coat desperately as you walk past a mother with a child’s hand in each of hers as though that will cover the stretch of exposed skin starting from where your skankyass short shorts end to where your skankyass knee high black boots that actually look quite decent when paired with a knee length pencil skirt or jeans begin; and
• scurrying into a cab where the first thing you hear is that Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior died for your sins - yes, even you! - over the radio waves.

Mine was the latter.
I arrived at my apartment. I probably showered. I hope I didn’t select any part of the fishnet stockings, military short shorts and knee high black boots attire to wear to work that morning, but I can’t fully commit myself to that hope since my difficulties with work appropriate dress have been widely established.

Now the bed that wasn’t my own has become mine too. And the craziest thing about last night was that we didn’t go out at all, instead selecting to watch Blade Runner - which I confused to be Blade for the first 15 minutes of the movie and wouldn’t a Vampires movie seem to be a more likely choice than a Robots-in-the-Future movie on Halloween night? - while I carefully eyed the gourmet Affy Tapples he had brought home, contemplating how much a pain in the ass making a mess and getting caramel and nuts stuck between my teeth would be to eat one.

There were no fishnet stockings. No military short shorts. No knee high black boots. No scorning mothers or Jesus guilt. And a part of me feels nostalgic - or as nostalgic as someone can feel about drunken nights they only 85%-ly remember.

But I still woke up half-naked this morning.

And this time, I didn’t have to worry about sneaking away from the bed that’s now mine too, in knee high black boots and military short shorts, already dying - I mean, really dying - with embarrassment and fear that Henry the Doorman would no longer think of me as his chéri anymore.