Vying for Disasterella

www.disasteronheels.com

I came upon this blog through a friends Twitter account. (I love social media so much!) I fell in love with the name and then the writing. I realized I had found a kindered spirit in the blog-universe and someone I wanted to get to know, even if it remained a one-way relationship. I'm kind of used to those.

Then on Tuesday she posted her Walk of Shame video and a reminder she was still taking submission for Disasterella. Disasterella?!!? That is ME! All that was needed was a good Walk of Shame story. Well, if nothing else I have at least a dozen WOS stories that display my love of living life to the fullest.

I email her four options and ask her which one she wants to hear. She emails back that afternoon with palpable excitment, telling me she loves my stories and any one of them would work. And maybe she would like all of them to do a feature about me on her blog. Shut up! Yes, please!!

Here is what I sent her.
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I wake up and look at the wall next to me. It takes me a minute to realize I don’t recognize it. At all. I slowly turn my head to the side in an effort to get my bearings. I see the tell-tale bars of a hostel bunk bed. I wouldn’t have known this before last week, but since this is the seventh hostel in as many days, I’m getting used to memorizing the color of the beds. I’m pretty sure I’m still in Brussels, home of the blue-railing hostel. As I roll over to my stomach, getting on my hands and knees in an effort to keep my head from spinning, I feel my shirt stick to me. I realize with a frown that I am wet. Sopping wet, head to toe, along one side of my body. And I’m not wearing pants.

What?

I am not wearing pants. And I have to pee. I slowly move over to get off the bed when I see that I am on the top bunk. I look over the side, hoping my pants will be lying-in-wait for me to rescue them from their leg-less existence. My cursory look with blood-shot eyes reveals I have nothing there. Not my backpack or my purse…..or traveling companion. I take a deep breath and realize with a smack of confusion that I am in the wrong bed, in the wrong room and I’m still not sure if I’m even in the right hostel.

I peel the sheet off me and assess my situation. I have to get down the bunk bed ladder, preferrably without vomiting everywhere. I soon discover there is no graceful way to do this. I crawl down, ass in the air, praying quietly no one would wake up to my decending thong. I see 5 people in their beds, all sound asleep. As I pull my clothes away from my body- Why am I wet?!!?- I double check that my travel companion is for certain not in the room. He is not. There is nothing for me to do but walk through the hostel and hope to find him. In my underwear.

I have a fleeting thought that a shower might be nice, but since I cannot find my pants I’m certain a towel is not in my near future.

I open the door out to the hall, positioning a random shoe in the automatically-locking doorway in case I have to return. I walk down the hall, my urge to find my pants trumped by my need to find a bathroom. I succeed in finding the ladies room and splash some water on my face. The shower taunts me, but I tap the door with resignamtion and continue on my search. With newfound determination I head out to find my companion, and my pants.

Three doors, and room searches later, I find him, sleeping soundly. On the top bunk. At this point I am so happy to see him I no longer care that I have to climb, ass out, up to see him. This time with the tell-tale stirrings of people waking up so I’m certain the thong show was seen in all its glory. I also am too happy to see him to consider that he might not want a soaking wet, pantless, hungover girl crawling in bed with him. He didn’t. I was greeted with a groggy “Why the HELL are you wet?!!?”

I answer him with a pat him on the cheek and ly down next to him, squeezing myself next to him on the twin-sized bed, slyly stealing the covers from him. He tells me my pants are in my backpack, which is on my bed underneath us. I smile and tell him to wake me when it’s time to go. He laughs sinisterly, tells me the train leaves in 45 minutes and to get my pants on.

45 minutes? Apparently my hangover will follow us to Bruge.
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There you go. I hope she likes it. I hope I win. If nothing else, this might lead me to a double sided-relationship and a new blogging friend. There are worse things.