The Walk of Shame, the Stride of Pride… that moment of undeniable feeling of accomplishment or whatever we may call it on our way home from a night of mischief and orgasms is universal and transcendent through generations. This was evident last night as I stumbled through the streets with my cousins trick or treating on the Main Line of Philadelphia. Pink wig and matching heels, a vintage garter skirt, and an ex’s button down, I was the Stride of Pride, or as I told my 7 year old cousins, the Sleepover Girl. My costume received apprehension at first, but then the brilliance began. The streets here are lined with perfect houses, perfect piles of leaves, and their perfect cars. I had always resented the people around me here. Wealthy, never had to look at price tags or worry about how to stay warm when the heat was turned off, or how to buy groceries. Perhaps I was just envious, but that is a different blog post.
Anyways, our cold shivering bodies were drawn to a house a few blocks away. Its fire was roaring as well as the laughter and the company surrounding it. The family was sitting, grand parents, parents, and new children excited for Halloween, a British family giddy at the idea of their first American Halloween. My cousins and godmother went up for their ceremonial candy and I followed. Everyone introduced themselves and then it was my turn. At a loss of words as to describe myself, my godmother introduced me as….The Walk of Shame. Laughter erupted and the grandmother, sitting on her rocking chair, was no longer seated but standing and applauding my costume, my statement. “Even across the pond we know that one and can relate!” There on Halloween, generations of women from different borders, sexualities, financial backgrounds, and school of thought connected, became one. Empowered about sex. My costume was worth it, frost bitten tits, chaffed thighs and all.