Not quite sleeping in a box

There sure was a balloon boy today. The end of the story (where he was in a box in his parents' attic) reminded me of a quasi-similar experience growing up.

Usually when I came home from school during my high school years I was the only one home. Steve usually went to work or had after-school activities. (For that matter, I usually had after-school activities, too.) My parents were working. Marissa was in day-care. Generally this meant that I threw my backpack in the middle of the living room (much to my parents' dismay) and played mindless computer games, did my homework, watched t.v. or talked on the phone. Sometimes I did many of these things at once. A great multi-tasker, I was.

One day, I did not leave my backpack in the middle of the floor. No, I took it to my room. And I stayed in my room where I fell fast asleep.

My parents came home, did not see my backpack in the middle of the floor and assumed I was not home. They figured I had some after-school function. Hours went by. My ride for my Wednesday night church activity came to get me. Where could Sherry be? They looked all over the house, even my room. They called some of my friends. They called the church building a few minutes into the start of the activity to see if I had gone there straight from whatever school function.

I woke up. I entered the living room. My mom hung up the phone and said, "I guess I don't need to call the police."

I'm still not sure how they didn't see me sleeping in my own bed. I mean, my room was always a mess, but I wasn't literally buried in my clothes.