BoomerGirl Diary

Continuing with the "two kinds of people in this world" theme, there are two kinds of people in this world:

Those who take naps and those who don't.

I'm a napper who comes from a long line of nappers. I have clear memories of my grandfather curled on his side on the settee, his face to the bay window, back to the room, knees up, soles of his white socks showing like a warning flag: "Nap in progress! Do not disturb!"

My mother managed to take a daily nap even when she had three small children. She did this by forcing us nap with her, something that today might get a sleep-deprived mother reported to Child Protective Services.

I continue this fine napping lineage.

Without fail on Saturday and Sunday, I nap. I close myself away in the bedroom for an hour. For fifteen minutes, I pre-nap. For twenty minutes to a half an hour, I nap. For fifteen minutes, I post-nap. One hour away from the world and I'm refreshed. If I'm forced to, I can do the fifteen-minute core nap alone without preface or postscript, but I love the luxury of not rushing the process.

It amazes me that I work at home and manage to keep myself from napping on weekdays come 2 p.m. The bedroom is mere steps away from the office, but I never go there. I guess that it's a testament to my self-discipline, or perhaps more likely a testament to the depths and strength of my Catholic Guilt, a setiment that has a shelf life requiring carbon dating.

My husband – The Sainted One – used to make fun of my napping dependence. He never used to nap and scoffed at my weekend disappearance, although he always honored it. And then he reached his late fifties and he began to do something that looked suspiciously like a nap to me, even though he still wouldn't accept the nap moniker. I decided to call it "stretching out on the couch for a long, long time without movement and with eyes closed while breathing very, very deeply."

That he could accept.