Who Decided This Pleasure was Guilty?

My name is Kelly and I am a napper.

“Hi Kelly.”

There are few things that are so enjoyable, and feel so verboten, yet, aren’t actually bad for you, as a nap. Doubt that napping is looked down upon? Subtly mention that you catch a few winks in the middle of the day in your next corporate meeting, and check the reaction of your colleagues. That look isn’t admiration.

Naps are on my mind today because I’m craving one right now. Thanks to the nuisance of daylight saving time (a pox on your house, George Vernon Hudson), I’m unusually tired this afternoon. Add to that the wet, gray conditions outside, and crawling under the sheets sounds near heavenly.

But this situation is not my ordinary nap scenario. While napping as an antidote to sleepiness seems rather practical, it is not the napping in which I typically indulge. No, I’m a fan of the Sunday Afternoon Nap: the nap I take just because I can. What is it about crawling into bed in broad daylight that feels so decadent? I get into that bed every night, and rarely even notice it. But during the day . . . that’s self-indulgent delight. It’s the sense that I’m getting away with something; that time is wasting and I’m not doing anything useful; that any minute someone could call, and, catching the sleepiness in my voice, ask, “Did I wake you?”

So, in the end, I suppose I’m grateful that napping is frowned upon in the adult world. If it was acceptable--or heaven-forbid, encouraged--I wouldn’t enjoy it half as much.