Walk Of Shame

I was standing in front of my door, ready to exit, but hesitating. It had become clear I was intentionally avoiding my roommate, and now I was about to boldly walk out of my room all smelly and confess to her. That's an idiotic move, even for me.

I might be eager, but not so much that I'm willing to embarrass myself. I should at least look presentable before meeting her. I stepped back and returned to gaming, waiting for the time to hit 13:05 AM—right about when she usually leaves for wherever.

This time, I played a boxing game. It's not really groundbreaking or anything, but I get to hit stuff, and it's bloody. It helps me internalize my past failures and excuse myself for being weak-willed.

I often ask myself: Was it the blood that made me hesitate? Or was I just not cut out for being a doctor because of the pressure? Maybe it was both—the sight of blood and the pressure—which is not depressing at all. I loudly exhaled. Was I doomed to fail from the beginning?

As I played, I became more and more aggressive. I almost threw my controller against the wall, but the sound of the door opening and closing from the other side brought me back to earth.

I put down the controller and was about to walk out when I realized it wasn't just my body that needed to be bleached clean—so did this room.

Good thing I was raised in a household where doing your own chores was mandatory, to teach some kind of humility, I guess. So cleaning won't be difficult, not when I'm this motivated.

I started with the large plastic bags full of trash, which shows that I at least wasn't that lazy.

I grabbed two trash bags, one in each hand, and walked out of my room. I was thrust into a dim, narrow hallway. I headed to the living room, which was also the kitchen, and properly appreciated how organized, neat, and well-maintained it was.

Seeing this room made me realize how smart my choice was. If I'd met her while I was smelly and disgusting, I would've lost her. I doubt someone as clean as her would stay with someone who can't even manage basic hygiene.

I walked out of the apartment and found myself in a hallway bigger than the one in my apartment. I walked to the elevator, dropped the trash, and headed back for two more bags.

I did that a few more times, then ran back inside the apartment. Look, don't judge—I said I was motivated, not that I had stopped being lazy. And yeah, I'm kind of a douchebag for whoever's going to clean up my mess. Sorry, dude.

I went back to my room with cleaning supplies and started by taking off the sheets and tossing them into the laundry basket. After that, it was time to vacuum. It took me an hour to really disinfect the place, despite how small it was.

Once the room began to smell fresh, the contrast between me and it became painfully obvious. Not just because I smelled like a homeless person, but because I looked like I had gone face-to-face with a kangaroo and lost, miserably.

I headed to the bathroom with my laundry basket, which was now filled not only with sheets but with a ton of dirty clothes. Again, I said I showered once in a while, maybe once a month or so. I didn't say I actually washed my clothes.

The bathroom was small, but very clean. I swear I could see my reflection on the tiled floor. Either my roommate's a clean freak, or I've lost touch with reality so much that what's considered basic now seems like royalty to me.

I knew I should wash my clothes first by going to the laundry room, but it wasn't just my roommate I needed to impress—it was also any neighbors I might encounter while heading there.

I put the laundry basket outside the door and started stripping. I turned on the shower faucet and waited for the water to hit the right temperature.

While waiting, I glanced at myself in the mirror and... whoa. It really shouldn't have taken a mystical system that may or may not exist to make me realize I needed a shower. I looked horrifying.

More than how dirty I was, my figure was shocking. I had become so slim and small. I'd always been petite, but now I could easily be mistaken for a malnourished child.

My ribs were showing, my cheeks sunken, and my eyes—once bright—were now dark and hollow. I looked like I hadn't eaten in years. My limbs were bony, and I started to worry for myself.

How did I let myself fall this deep into a pit of self-loathing? I mean, look at my hair—unwashed, tangled, a total mess. I looked like a crazy person.

"Is that cheese in my hair? How did that even get there?"

I shook my head and got into the tub, letting the warm water dampen my hair. It clung stickily to my back as the water trailed down my body. I grabbed the shampoo from the caddy and smeared it all over my head.

I used way more than necessary, but even I was disgusted with myself.

I washed my hair for at least thirty minutes, then scrubbed my body thoroughly. I felt dirty—like I needed a proper cleansing. It took over an hour and a half before I finally felt satisfied.

And best of all, I didn't forget to shave my hairy legs, which had been bothering me since I looked like a werewolf.

I got out of the tub, dried myself with a towel, and looked in the mirror.

"Even though I look a hundred times better than I did before, I still think I could use some makeup to look more presentable," I murmured to myself.

I gave myself a satisfied nod and practically skipped out of the bathroom—only to come running back. I grabbed my toothbrush and paste, not even daring to look in the mirror again as I started brushing my teeth like my life depended on it.

I brushed, flossed, and rinsed again and again, not stopping even when my gums bled, until my teeth were whiter than my pale skin and my breath smelled like nothing but mint.

Of all the things I should be embarrassed about, this one tops the list. I'd read somewhere that neglecting dental care shows a lack of self-esteem, and yeah, I'd been lacking that for a while. But still, it's no excuse for not brushing my teeth this long.

When I finally left the bathroom, I was much more somber. There was no skipping this time—just a walk of shame back to my room.