Walk of Sham(e)rock

"One day is worth two tomorrows" – Ben Franklin
(or Rent, yeah … or Dead Poet's Society)

Some hardy-party-ers may take their carpe diem-ism to the next level – like my friend who inadvertently drank her way into oblivion one night at JR's (much to the dislike of the all-gay-male staff that is apparently intolerant of female drunkenness). Seize the day, Mich!!! Just don't seize the nearest boy (ahem!).

What is to follow after a night of throwing caution to the wind (and not to mention the tossing of other miscellaneous items like: rusted hooks, moist underwear, and, most notably, one's cookies – and I'm not joking about ANY of these) is the payback of doing things one used to manage well until the ripe old age of 25.

Drunkenness is a bitch; just ask the cabbie who politely pulled over every other block to allow my friend the honor of puking on the street in 30 degree weather. At least the cabbie was helpful: "Just put finger in throat … feel much better!" Apparently purging advice transcends cultures.

There is also the "walk of shame" that accompanies any rough evening out trying to reclaim one's youth (and later, one's dignity). Most people can disguise the shameful saunter that follows the scandalous tumble of the prior evening: hair matted, lipstick reapplied, wrinkles shaken and eyes slightly glazed.

However, there is one day where the walk of shame cannot be avoided despite all attempts to primp and pamper one's disorganized morning crawl; the day after St. Patrick's Day.

Sweetheart … if it's the morning of the 18th, and you're still wearing green on the Metro at 12:00 noon, shame shall stalk you until your next shower.

I wonder how you say that in Latin?