Mornings

I'm explaining this for a final time (I'm fairly certain I've explained it before somewhere, once upon a time, who knows where I put it).



I've been known from time to time to spend the night at a boy's house. Perhaps a boy I don't know all that well. And when I wake up in the morning, it is all I can do not to straight sprint out of there. This isn't because I didn't enjoy myself. This isn't because I don't want to do it again. Generally, if one made those assumptions, they would be wrong. But because my actions may come across as contrary to my feelings, I feel the need to explain the thought process.

It goes a little something like this:

Here's a fun fact: most boys sleep like logs. They are out. And they snore. I am a notoriously light sleeper. So chances are I am waking up before him after the passed out from alcohol part wears off. When I first wake up, I want more. More attention, more affection, more. If it becomes readily apparent that that is not going to happen (soft nudges and gentle kisses aren't reciprocated, because boy is still out cold), I'm now plotting my immediate escape. I don't want to stick around some virtual strangers apartment without access to all the things I need to start feeling less hungover. I used to lay there tapping my toes impatiently wondering what to do. Now I just bolt. There is very little that makes the next morning not totally awkward, even under the best circumstances.

I wake up and am more likely than not hungover. I have to figure out where I am and how much clothing I have on. I then do a quick scan to find my clothing. I'm going to hope I can reach and grab it without having to expose too much of myself. Because here's the deal: the night before? Drunk and flirty and confident? Yeah. That was my drunken alter ego. She's ridiculous. Me? I've been conditioned by years of media to absolutely loathe my body. Especially in the harsh morning light. I want my clothes. Stat.

I'm also thinking about how I need to brush my teeth. Badly. I need a Dr Pepper. I need Excederin. I know that my meticulously applied make-up has been smudged off so that I now resemble a sad raccoon. Or two dollar hooker. Or Taylor Momsen who often looks like a sad two dollar hooker raccoon. I really don't want anyone seeing me like that. My hair is also probably something out of the bride of Frankenstein and all the flat ironing I did the night before has disappeared.

I want my own bed with my nice sheet set and not your awful bed. (Trust me, it's awful. Every guy I have ever known needs to read the blurb in this month's Esquire, that I can't find, about buying sheets and having dark curtains. But to sum up: matching sheet set, 4 pillows, down comforter with a duvet cover, or comparable. (Macy's hotel collection is recommended.))

I want my own bathroom. Because I will be damned if you know if I even need to use the bathroom. I also need my own shower with all my own amenities. Any guy who has ever told a girl, "You can just shower here" is an idiot. We women? We're complicated and fussy, even those of us that generally aren't complicated and fussy. I am not taking a shower in your dirty shower (yes, it's dirty) with your awful, harsh soap and the towels you stole from a Holiday Inn. (Want me to stay? Hotel shampoos, clean, plush towels. (Also recommend Macy's.) But don't be too well stocked or too used to this little tactic because that'll just be creepy. How many girls cycle through this place anyway? We're both operating under the delusion that this NEVER happens.)

I'm hoping I'm on the easily escapable side of the bed (if the bed is against a wall), that I can move without causing too much disturbance. Trust me, it's better that you're asleep at this point.  

And I need to remember, in all likelihood, where my car is and get there as quickly as possible. Or figure out another means of getting home. And remember what part of the city I'm in and how far exactly I am from my own house. I'm cycling all this through my brain and the boy is likely still asleep.

For all of the above mentioned reasons, I don't really want to kiss you goodbye. I also don't want to exchange awkward chit chat. I really don't want you to make empty promises about seeing me again or calling me. If you are sincere, awesome. But chances are you aren't (yes, I'm a cynical, cynical girl). I'm an adult and I know what just happened. So just stay in bed, pretend to sleep, and let me leave quietly.

Now, it is my own previously admitted failing that I will make no attempt to leave you my number. I should probably work on that. But really, just let me leave in peace if you don't want it, I have no expectations and you shouldn't either. Because you're a man and that same media has conditioned me to hate my body has also conditioned me to feel a certain way about you (you are a walking, talking bad beer commercial). 

After the five minutes or so it takes me to quietly process all of the above, I'm then going to, as stealthily as possible, put on my jeans, throw on my shirt, grab my shoes, shove my bra in my purse and get out of there ASAP. Hopefully, mercifully, avoiding any roommates you may have. Again, don't take this personally.

UNLESS! You actually are interested in seeing me again and want the morning when I leave to be less terrifying, I've come up with some ways you can make this a better experience:

1. If you happen to wake up, ask me to stay. I will refuse, say something about walking the dog/running errands/meeting my mom for lunch. But thanks for asking. 
2. Again, if awake, tell me you had a great time and give me a compliment. About my looks, jackass. 
3. Offer me a t-shirt so I don't have to walk of shame it in last nights going out clothes. Bonus: I'll always remember you fondly when I grab that t-shirt off the shelf and wear it to bed. 
4. Do not offer to take me to eat right then. I mean, seriously, I don't think I want you knowing I eat yet and I need all of the above mentioned stuff before I can do that. "Hey! Let's grab some breakfast!" is great later in...whatever this is, but right now? No. Besides, I'm hungover and about to shove the nearest grease soaked item I can find down my gullet. It will not be lady like. And after all, I'm totally a lady. 
5. Ask me for my phone number. 
6. If you don't wake up when I peace out, you've magically procured my number or I've left it for you, or you have some other way of getting in touch with me, a text/email/smoke signal that same day will score you major points and get us closer to doing that again. And yes, I want to do that again because, um, who doesn't? 

And there you have it, a girl's perspective on the next morning. Now, excuse me while I figure out where the hell my other sock is...