The hair is a disheveled mess of a mop and it looks like you rolled around in bed for the past hour…continuously. The clothes are a perfect mix of broken-in dirty wash and rumpled unpretentiousness. The makeup is flawlessly imperfect, smudged to create the perfect smokey eye…

But that’s my favorite look to rock on the weekends — day or night.

My walk of shame isn’t the typical one you’re thinking. Remember how I said that I live with a nice older couple? I might have conveniently forgotten to mention that I have a curfew. Don’t ask me to explain, it’s just one of those things I accept, but that doesn’t mean I’m entirely comfortable letting everyone know. The only way I can get through this conversation is to avoid direct eye contact and mumble the words quickly while praying the ground swallows me up on the spot.

So, my walk of shame is when I’ve got to depart earlier than everyone else for the night. Sometimes this walk of shame is short: down the driveway of a house, other times it’s a few city blocks through quiet and desolate neighborhoods and in worst case scenarios it’s a entire plane ride. I’ve made friends with security guards just so I don’t have to walk this stretch of darkness by myself. But most of the time, I find myself walking to my car alone, divorced from the party and even when I reach the safety of my car, it’s like being jilted at the altar. Do your friends / girlfriends / whatevers a favor…walk the girl to her car.