A lot of things change as we get older.
One of the things I wish we could keep from our childhood is sleepovers. I loved a good sleepover back in the day.
I remember one time my friend Vicky slept over. We were probably about 8 or 9. It was lights out time, and we lay there, on the floor of my bedroom surrounded by the dark. We lived in a nice brick ranch house, in a nice safe neighborhood. But lying there, listening to the sounds that now, as adults, we know was nothing more than the house settling, we were convinced that a serial killer lurked just outside my bedroom door. He was thirsty, for little russian girl blood. We lay there, our bodies taut with tension, afraid to breathe, because if we did, he would know. We held each other’s hand, turning our knuckles white. If he was going to take one of us down he was going to take us both down. We took turns alternately whispering our fears to each other, and shsh’ing each other.
We were on such an adrenaline high and with no killer to actually try and snatch us up, we had no release.
Then we got restless.
So we did what any normal 9 year old girls terrified of being chopped into pieces by a serial killer would do.
We snuck out, to the backyard, and went night swimming in my pool. My parents never knew, and we were left feeling like we had gotten away with murder.