My Snow Squall Walk of Shame

The Boy spent the night, and I had to drive him home in the morning. No big deal. I throw on sweatpants and a cardigan — nothing else. No bra. No hat. No gloves. No underwear. Just me, my phone, my wallet, and snow boots. Basically, the bare minimum survival kit if the apocalypse hit stylishly lazy.

I drop him off, no problem. But on my way back, the sky decides to audition for a disaster movie. A full-blown snow squall hits, and my car is fishtailing like it’s drunk. I live at the top of a hill — think Everest, but with worse parking — and there is no way I’m making it up.

So I pull into Weis, about two miles away. Park. Fine. Safe. But now what? The only thing worse than climbing into a stranger’s car is climbing into one half-naked. (Uber does not need that review.)

So I decided to walk. Through the woods. In a snowstorm. No hat. No gloves. No underwear. Just nipples, cardigan holes, and regret.

About halfway in, I’m so cold I genuinely consider just lying down in the snow and letting nature take me. But the thought of my father having to process the news headline “Oldest Daughter Found Frozen to Death, No Underwear” snaps me back to life. Mortifying him posthumously? Unacceptable.

So I soldier on. Blue lips. Drenched hair. Nipples sharp enough to carve ice sculptures. I stumble into my house looking like a cautionary tale. But I survived. I was not one more girl found frozen in the woods sans underwear.

And that, dear reader, is what family pride looks like.