Frumpville

I have never been a fan of sleepovers. When I was little, I would beg my parents to say no when my friends asked me to grab a pillow and come over. The smell of someone elses house, the loud ticking of the grandfather clock, and the foreign bathroom just never appealed to me.
Growing up, I took my beauty sleep seriously. No matter the occasion, when the clock struck nine I was in the bathroom entertaining my nightly ritual. I am not joking when I say that I spent the next forty-five minutes prepping for bed. I washed my face, hands, and feet; brushed and flossed, and applied several different flavors of creams and moisturizers. I can't explain it, but after five years in the college life, I miss my nighttime therapy.
With that preface, I want to declare that I am a homebody. I like being by myself. Despite my abilities as an extrovert, my flare for adventure, and love of the outdoors, I love to be at home in my bed. I think it is actually a way to compensate for the extrovertness. I don't like to get all dressed up and go mingle with strangers in search of their major. This is my sanctuary. Maybe I am trying to justify the fact that it is Friday, and I am currently in my bed typing this blog, or that I am graduated, living in a college town. I just love being home, doin my thang. I also attribute this wacky fetish for the loss of several boyfriends. When the time card has been punched, I don the sweats and continue my reign as queen of frumpville. Now that is attractive. No one can invade, I can lose myself in my thoughts, a good book, or online shopping, and I am 100% content.