I woke up Sunday morning in a borrowed T-Shirt and shorts, last night' hair turned into this morning's bird nest, makeup under my eyes and a matching girl beside me, hair all over, scary makeup, matching shirt and shorts. I got up and leaned on my elbows as I looked out the window and waited for her to wake up so we could go get croissants at the French baker's. We also had the requisite run-through of the night's previous events to match up memories, fill in gaps and soberly appreciate the comedic value of our exploits.
I am going to miss sleepovers when I move away. I will miss crashing at my best friend's place after a night of twentysomething folly. I will relish in them when I make visits home to Ottawa, but the associated and forced sanctity intrinsic in a visit will mean the randomness, the spontaneous sleepover, will be a thing of the past. Laughing at boys that didn't get the hint, the one who drank too much, the cab driver who performed elaborate card tricks while driving, the crazy dancer who had no idea how hilarious she looked. The late night poutine trips and popping into the Irish pub after closing for just one more drink. The phone calls to our friends who don't answer their phones. Are they hooking up? Lost? Sick? The next morning greasy spoons to soothe our nautical-feeling stomachs.
My friends are the cat's meow and leaving them will be difficult. Pulling apart the bonds that have been tightening for 13 years, in some cases. Email and phone calls won't be the same as getting ready to go out, watching chick flicks and painting toenails. Well, there's three months more of that and seize it I will.