Some people wake up from a night out wishing more than anything they could recover their texts from last night.
My problem is similar - only instead of errant texts, I have clothes from last night.
It started on the Street - first I lost my prox, then my keys. Soon I moved up to accessories: a camera at TI, a coat at Tower, shorts at Cloister, a sweater at Ivy. Then second semester came around, and I switched from eating clubs to dorm rooms.
My first time, it was just a sweatshirt in 1903. I returned to Forbes a little chilly, but none of the customers at the Wa cast me a second look (my walks of shame usually involve some still-drunk Wa purchase). The recovery was a little awkward - nothing special.
But it got worse. The night before an exam, I ended up in a busy Wilson suite. As I began to leave for some preparatory sleep, I found myself sexiled from my shoes - resulting in a shoeless pretzel purchase that morning. The Wa clientele sneered.
Eager to recover my shoes, I picked them up on the way to the exam. It was an oral exam. We abortively discussed my surplus footwear. The professor judged me contemptuously.
My shoeless adventures continued earlier this year when I deserted every single one of my clothes in the junior slums, walking back to Forbes in the drunken misconception that I would make it to class. Commuters at the Dinky may have glared, but - thankfully - I was still blacked out. This I learned when I awoke to a Facebook status asking the world where I had left my pants.
The next day, I retrieved my clothes, stuffed them into a bag and headed to Nassau Street. I only realized the bag was transparent following a friend's loud inquiry into the provenance of my second outfit, whereupon I immediately felt the disdainful gaze of a passerby.
Obviously that has made little impression on me. I awoke a few weeks later in a junior-slum room I had never seen, by myself and in my boxers. This time, despite my still-considerable intoxication, snowfall forced me to consider the whereabouts of my apparel. As it turned out, not one article of my clothing had made it to that room.
I realized that in the end, I'd rather not wake up sober enough to attend to my clothes. Some things are better forgotten.
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