Noun: An occasion of spending the night away from home, or of having a guest or guests spend the night in one’s home.
I don’t like sleepovers. I have to be extremely comfortable with you in order to partake in a sleepover. And I would much prefer to not sleep at your place. It is less awkward for me to kick you out of my house than it is for me to sneak out of yours.
I think this constitutes as one of my issues and therefore I don’t expect many to be able to relate to this problem. Although, when I speak about it and justify my feelings it seems extremely logical to me and almost makes me believe that everyone should feel the same way. Mornings are awkward. Bright Eyes said it best “Cause what is simple in the moonlight, by the morning never is.” Your eyes and brain suddenly burst open in two point five seconds and you instantly question where you are. You most probably have a slight hangover and didn’t get much sleep. You instantly remember that you either agreed to a sleepover, was too intoxicated to drive home or fell asleep before you could leave (obviously). You panic.
After your initial panic attack you force yourself to calm down so as not to wake the big spoon behind you. You can’t help but be tremendously grateful for whoever opened the window the night before for it has allowed you to not break out in a sweat with all the body heat going on. Sweating would just make everything more awkward and definitely uncomfortable with the skin to skin contact going on.
Side note; I don’t really enjoy cuddling. I mean, five to ten minutes is OK, but anything more is just painful. Usually literally.
Your next thought: I’m not wearing any underwear. A second panic attack comes along. I just want my underwear. I would feel so much better if I was wearing them. Regardless of the t-shirt you are wearing not being yours; you are still wearing a t-shirt, so where are your underwear? You don’t dare move to try and find them because you might wake the one whose hand is now on your bare ass and you really don’t want them to wake up before you can somehow figure out what your face looks like.
You have no choice but to make a move. Your leg is cramping and you need to rub the sleep from your eyes. You make a slight move, pretending to be sleeping. He stirs behind you. Moving his arm around your waist now; you feel like you can’t breathe. You lie there for what seems like forever. You try to devise a plan to sneak out, but with your belongings strewn all over the floor you undeniably will not be able to make it out alive. By alive I mean without confrontation. Oh and through all of this, you have to pee.
Finally he seems to be waking up. At least he turns the other way. This gives you room to breathe and move just enough to find your underwear. He questions your dressing. You tell him you have a brunch to attend. It’s actually not a lie. You find your jeans and rush them on. You are horrified at your reflection in the mirror when you finally get up. You beg him to find you an elastic for your hair; but why would he have such a thing? You hurry out; he says you don’t have to leave. As you leave the building you can’t help but cringe: there is no denying a walk of shame when you still have on last night’s red lipstick.