Falling asleep in movies: my bad habit

I have a problem — a very real, pressing problem — with falling asleep. Always. In any position: seated, standing, leaning casually against a doorframe. No matter the temperature of the room or the volume of the environment; no matter how socially acceptable sleeping may or may not be, a tired Lily (though let’s be real, a typical Lily) will always be found asleep.

And, see, this wouldn’t necessarily be a PROBLEM, except that it always happens during movies.

My friends hate me for this. They’ll be trying to introduce me to some great magnum opus they’ve all cherished since childhood, built up in our conversations for months, and as the credits roll, they look over and there I am: asleep.

It’s not like I can really help it, though. My brain desires sleep like a hallucinogenic drug; it takes every opportunity to shut itself down and plunge into the trippy, hazy REM wonder of slumber. And when the lights are dimmed, and the soft voices of femme fatales are surrounding me in bliss, my brain is powerless to temptation.

Sleeping during movies is an extremely regular, normal, typical activity. I get that. I convince myself that this sleeping thing isn’t a problem at all, but a benefit — hey, I’m catching up on those eight to nine hours, aren’t I? I’m restoring myself, I’m getting beauty rest, and according to the Internet (always the most trustworthy source), I’m burning calories. So, ha. Turn on the Les Misérables and let me take a nap.

But, still. I can’t say that out loud. Because no matter what I tell myself, sleeping during movies always makes me feel impossibly guilty.

Les Misérables was the first strike. It was spring break, Chicago, 2015, three girls on a basement couch convincing our guy friend to accompany us for three hours of Hugh Jackman and the French Revolution and singing all your feelings.

It was something that I, as a drama geek, was supposed to enjoy. And yet, imagine: We’re thirty minutes in, Anne Hathaway has just poured her raw, beaten heart into “I Dreamed a Dream,” and I feel an eyelid flutter. Oh, NO. Oh, no no no, not now, not after Anne Hathaway! But I can’t stop it. I’m powerless. Two eyelids flutter and my friend Tommy looks over with a chuckle: “Are you really sleeping right now?”

“No!” I’m defensive, obstinate. “Of course not! I was just shutting out the world, focusing on the music, you know?”

“Suuuure,” he says, and he draws the “U” out like he knows I’m floundering.

“Lily, you can’t sleep!” My friend Maggie says, “this is Les Mis!”

And God. I know. I know it’s Les Mis, and it’s important and it’s beautiful and it’s something I’m supposed to be riveted to, every time, and I KNOW I can’t sleep. I can’t, I can’t, I shouldn’t.

But someone’s stuffing my head with cotton and pulling on my eyelids with puppet strings, and well, what am I supposed to do?

Just like it happened countless times before, the problem of sleep transgressed the world of Les Mis and brought me to a terrible crossroads. Either I give in or I bear the pain; either I let myself relax or I, quite literally, slap myself in the face until I obey. It sounded like a logical enough decision, like it did every time, but still, still, I felt so guilty.

My friends cared about Les Misérables with an almost irrational intensity, and while they were admittedly a little overzealous, I loved them for it, and I wanted to respect them in their crazy overzealousness. I wanted to relate — I wanted to be like them, cool and passionate and enthused with the world of French musicals. So how could I dare to fall asleep? To me, that seemed a disrespect. Though I loved and appreciated and enjoyed the film, what really agonized me, as my eyelids fell for good around 50 minutes in, was not missing the rest of the movie but missing the chance to show my friends I care.

So, that’s the gist of it, I guess. My big, overdramatic, paralyzing-with-guilt problem. I fall asleep in movies, and it makes me feel pitifully un-cinephiliac and pitifully uncaring.

But as I write this, I’ve been thinking: Am I being overdramatic? I’m probably — like always — taking this too seriously. Probably. Falling asleep in movies isn’t really that sinful. Or heartless. Or personality-defining, big-deal awful.

I’ve been dwelling on this much longer than is probably sane, so before I freak out, an open letter to my Les Mis-loving friends out there: I swear that I care, even if I fall asleep. And with that, I’ll stop. Because I admit: I’m definitely being overdramatic.