There are many reasons why post-college life is dubbed "The Real World." From the moment we are accepted into college, before we pick out that perfect extra-long duvet, we are expected to begin prepping ourselves for the enigmatic "real world." And although college is supposed to prepare us for it, it actually makes the transition worse. How many college graduates wake up groggy and hungover at 11:00 a.m., go to the office in their pajamas 'till 4:00 p.m. then eat a chicken quesadilla before napping 'till 6:00 p.m.? I have a few friends that have recently graduated and they've given me a glimpse of the real world. I've been to the dark side and it frightens me. It's a hell of 10-hour work days, traffic-incited road rage and oxford shirts…oxford shirts as far as the eye can see.
Oh yeah, and those drunken hookups that are so much fun in college? You can forget about those when you graduate. Hooking up goes from bragging rights to deep regret before your student loans go into repayment. There is a big difference between sneaking in someone sexy from sociology and waking up with a Webster Hall weirdo. Just ask one of my friends.
It was a typical Tuesday night, one in which she got drunk at a local bar. Scantily clad in a backless halter and her new Cole Hann sling-backs, she grew tipsy from her third whisky pineapple and found herself in the arms of a man just as he was ordering two shots of Patron. Delighted by his opener, she gratefully downed the first shot of three. Next thing she knew, she was waking up to the strange smell of Axe body spray and latex. Her eyes, previously glued shut with mascara and lack of moisture, revealed her worst nightmare. She was in an unfamiliar room of an odd electric blue. Strewn about were empty pizza boxes and to her shock, a condom wrapper. She didn't know whether to be relieved or saddened by her discovery until she looked beside her. Then any trifle of relief disappeared. "Classic case of beer goggles," she thought as she snuck out of the bed and searched for her clothing. Her once sexy halter-top was snapped and stained. Her new leather shoes were scratched and scuffed to the point of ruin. So was her dignity. Here she was-a bright, confident teacher to children with special needs rummaging through the messy closet of a man she barely knew, in search of a shirt and hopefully fragments of her dignity. After slipping on a "Save Water. Drink Beer" T-shirt (the only one she could find without pit stains), she grabbed her purse and snuck out of the mystery man's bedroom. Reluctantly, she went to the bathroom hoping to make herself halfway decent in the eyes of the morning rush-hour crowd. Inspired by temptation and pure disgust of her own reflection, she opened the mirrored medicine cabinet to a barrage of little orange bottles. She recognized nothing on the labels, not even his name. She let out an exasperated sigh and tiptoed barefoot down the hall and out the door.
In college, the walk of shame usually entails going back to your room way too dressed up for daylight. More importantly, you most likely know the person whose room you are coming back from. In the real world, however, it involves a subway ride and a clinic. There are millions of men in the real world and just as many diseases. There are no rumors in the real world of your potential hookup as you are seen leaving student health with a small paper bag. There's no way of knowing if he's the really happy-go-lucky type or if he is, in fact, addicted to Prozac, or maybe worse. It's just not safe, and quite tacky. There is simply no graceful way to leave someone's apartment in smeared mascara, reeking of tequila, in three-inch stilettos. I mean, Carrie Bradshaw couldn't even pull that off.
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