Sunday, November 29, 2015
When I was in kindergarten I was an idiot. Part of the kindergarten curriculum was a period after lunch called nap time. They’d take all us cripples to a dark room full of cots and make us lie down. And I fucking hated nap time! I resisted napping like it was torture. They practically had to bound and gag me to get me to settle down and take a damn nap.
See what I mean? Was I an idiot or what? I don’t know what I was thinking with that pea-sized kindergarten brain of mine. But I am a changed man. I fantasize now about having a job where the supervisor calls an emergency staff meeting to announce, “Listen up! A new edict just came down from corporate. Effective immediately, after lunch, everybody has to take a nap!”
Taking naps is a pain in the ass for me because I can’t get myself in and out bed. I’d have to call in one of my pit crew members to toss me in bed and all that so I just say fuck it and I don’t take naps, which is a damn good thing because if I could nap at will it probably would have ruined my life a long time ago.
Because I know me. When I get all cozy warm up under the covers I never want to come out. And I’m married to a woman who’s the same way. She’s a nap enabler. Maybe some people can power nap and spring up fresh after 10 minutes. But I know I don’t have that kind of will power. My naps would be seven, eight, nine hours long. I wouldn’t have any friends or a job and I’d end up on the streets, napping on a cardboard slab.
Eventually the bouts of post-nap remorse would get to be too much for me and I’d finally admit to myself that I’m napping my life away and I need help. I’d join Nappers Anonymous. And I pity the person who becomes my sponsor. I’d wear that poor sap out quick. I’d call him/her every day and here’s how it would go:
ME: I really wanna take a nap.
SPONSOR: No! Stay awake, brother!
ME: I’m gonna take a nap. Just a quick one. Ten minutes. Good night.
SPONSOR: Hold on! I’m coming over!
My sponsor kicks down my door and finds me all cozy warm up under the covers and I’m sawing wood like a sonuvabitch. He/she has to do something that will irritate me enough to get me out of bed, like strike up the live marching band he/she brings along in these emergency situations. Or maybe play a republican presidential debate at full blast. And I’d probably take a swing at him/her and then the police would come.
So it’s a good thing I can’t get myself in and out of bed.
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