We’ve all been there. Guys. Ladies. All of us.
You have a one-night stand. Either you go back to their place or to yours, you do your thing together, go to sleep, and when you wake up the next morning 99% of the time you just want to a) get the other person out of your place or b) get the hell out of the other person’s place. Back when I did this sort of thing with frequency, I had a whole routine planned out, one where I’d lie and say that I had a fake meeting I had to get to. I’d walk out the door with the girl I was with, put her in a cab and then make one circle around the block and go back to my apartment to get some more sleep rather than, you know, spend more time with the other person talking over coffee or breakfast. Does this make me a terrible person? Probably. But I’ve come to accept that.
So you can imagine how horrifying it must have been for this bro who got stuck at the home of a girl he’d had a one night stand with the previous night due to the lockdown Boston was under on Friday when the bombers were being hunted down by authorities. THE HORROR.
I woke up this morning with the standard one-night-stand accouterments (booze sweats, eyes and brain feeling like they’ve just come out of the microwave, an embarrassing case of gastrointestinal unrest). I put my bare feet down on the floor while trying to find my cell phone and my dignity (both proved elusive), and in doing so I stepped on a giant shard of a broken wine glass. It apparently fell to its end and shattered into a galaxy of twinkling shrapnel from atop the nightstand, which itself had nearly been toppled somehow. Then I hopped over to the TV and turned on CNN.
And it was then when I realized I had a problem. The whole city was locked down. Taxis were suspended. Public transit shuttered. Cops were going house to house. Armored vehicles were roaming the streets. No one could go out. You weren’t even supposed to open the door unless it was for a cop.
With a deadline to hit and a cell phone running on 8% battery, it quickly became clear that my plan to quietly slip out and return home to fulfill my work obligations would be a near impossible feat. I was trapped. And what was meant to be a discreet exit was now an agonizingly gratuitous small-scale walk of shame across the apartment from the bedroom to the bathroom. I paused in the living room to offer up an uncomfortable morning salutation to the roommate, who sat on the couch wearing a robe and a distinct “who the hell is this guy?” look on her face. Yup.
Go read the whole thing when you have a minute. It’s pretty funny.