I nap.
There, I've admitted it. And though I can't see you, I can imagine the look on your face. I've seen it before--the shock, the judgement--as though I were admitting to drowning furry little kittens in a bucket of stagnant, muddy Mississippi River water.
I'm a busy gal. There's the long commute, meetings to attend, email to be ignored, page after page of copy to mark all over, and what seem to be hundreds of miles a day to walk in pinching, pointy-toed shoes. On Saturday and Sunday, there are chores to avoid, projects to make, groceries I wish I'd bought, and previously-ignored emails to answer. And of course, there are always the threes.
It's important to my well-being that I preserve the nap window. If I don't nap on the weekend, I feel as though I've missed an appointment. Or like the rest of the family just left to go to the circus, but I was left behind. Drat.
And it's not just a question of missed opportunity. Enough wakeful nights, and I start to lose my mind. Yesterday, I went to the door to answer my icemaker.
So every weekend afternoon, between the hours of 12 noon to 4 pm, I observe the nap window. Please note that I am not napping the entire four hours. But I am almost certainly napping at some point during that span of time, so you should not call me. Everyone who knows me, knows not to call my house during the nap window. Even the three-legged dog who lives next door takes a break. I am, right this moment, eagerly anticipating next Saturday's nap.
Most of the time, I drop right in the middle of whatever I'm doing. I wake up 45 minutes later with bowtie pasta in my hair, or the vacuum cleaner sucking the sock off my foot. Occasionally, though, I plan for my nap like a big event. What determines whether I go all out for the big event nap or just submit to the-come-as-you-are nap depends upon only one thing.
Rain.
Yum. I crack open a window, turn on the overhead fan, and crawl on top of the covers. Lying there, worn out from all the pre-nap preparation (the cracking open, turning on, and crawling over), I know that I am happier than I will be at any one time throughout the whole of next week. The house is silent except for the drip of the rain off the house and the tick of the living room clock. Just as I nod off, I hear myself make an "ughn" sound--as though I were falling out of the bed into sleep.
And then my mother calls.
3 comments:
Reading your piece on napping gave me the same wonderful feeling I get when I eat a delicious piece of pie while drinking a rich cup of coffee--just good.
Your blogs help make up for the fact that you live and work so far away from me. It's almost like I'm still sitting at that desk, smelling the coffee, and listening to you, the phone, and Andy's rambling.
Public schools are just not the same....
Lisa, that's so funny you mention that. I came across this Gertrude Stein quote last week. Tell me she doesn't sound like someone we both know:
"The composition is the thing seen by everyone living in the living they are doing, they are the composing of the composition that at the time they are living is the composition of the time in which they are living."
I miss you, sweet girl.
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