of the furtive nap

There is a house,
a napping house,
where everyone is sleeping.

In this hilarious book from my childhood, “everyone” is a snoring granny, a dreaming child, a dozing dog, a snoozing cat, a slumbering mouse…and a wakeful flea. The fact that it’s one of my favourite books may reveal a little too much about me.

In high school, I staked out Sunday afternoon as quality time avoiding homework due Monday morning with my bed. I drew my yellow curtains, turned the fan on high to mask the sound of motorcycles puttering up the hill outside my window, and snoozed for two delicious hours. In my first year of uni, necessity forced me to master the more practical power nap – 20 minutes of deep sleep right before class. By the end of that year, I had pared it down to 10 comatose minutes that recharged me just enough to jump up and go.

These days I’m more likely to do this: 

Are you a napper? Do you ever give in to the urge to zonk out? Yesterday I very nearly did.

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