Trust me, I don’t do “subtle.” Until I do.
In any event, y’all, just relax. Like Justice Potter Stewart’s definition of obscenity, I assure you that if I want to fire a shot across your bows one day you, especially, will know it when you see it. LOL. Because, as the great man said,
Truth is incontrovertible. Panic may resent it. Ignorance may deride it. Malice may distort it. But there it is.
Everything isn’t about you.
Nor, in the case of this post, is it about a friend of mine who happens to be a Ricochet member who, along with his wife, tried to hightail it out of my driveway with my beloved Psymon in their RV a couple of years ago, on their way to an air show somewhere points north and west of here. (That’s a joke which I’m sure they’ll get. My personal take on the matter has always been that Psymon heard us discussing the next leg of the journey, and thought that he’d like to learn to fly a plane. So I don’t blame them entirely for the (almost) jailbreak. Himself is pretty perseverant when he puts his mind to it.)**
Rather, I’m talking about the actual practice of taking a nap (sometimes referred to as a “catnap”) in the middle of the day.
I’ve never, ever, found such a thing relaxing or advantageous, although members of my family, including my late husband, my late mother, and my stepdaughter, would say otherwise.
Case in point:
A few days ago, somewhere mid-afternoon, I was tired. I’ve recently resumed regular hostilities with my gym, and have just about implemented enough discipline that I go for my thrice-weekly half-mile swim every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I still haven’t worked my way back to where doing such a thing is a “doddle,” as the British say, and it still wears me out a bit. As does the 30 minutes on the rowing machine on the other days, or the 2-1/2-mile walk on the days when I can’t manage either of the above. I’m getting there slowly but surely.
Still, between the swim and the post-hole digging (part of my latest project to build a chicken coop for Chinggis and his soon-to-be-acquired girlfriends), one afternoon I found myself a bit exhausted. So I sat down in my favorite “Queen’s Chair” (as a guest in the house, I forget who, once dubbed it), with a nice book, and dozed off. I suppose it was about 3 p.m. when my bum hit the seat cushion.
Next thing I knew, I was jolted awake by the weird little voice in the landline handset (which was on my dining-room table) squawking “LOW BATTERY” in an artificial voice. I checked the clock.
Oh, Lord, I thought. 5:12. Time to shove the phone onto the base station to shut it up, and get a couple hours more sleep. So I handled the phone and then staggered into the actual bed.
The next time I surfaced?
Wut? Wow! I’ve slept through the entire morning, and into the early afternoon! Jump out of bed with concerns about putting the dogs out, checking on the lambs, and sticking the rooster in his run.
Then suddenly think to myself–“why is it still dark outside?”
That’s been my life for the entirety of it.
I never did get back to a restful sleep.
I really do think that humanity can be divided into two sorts: those for whom the occasional catnap in the middle of the day is helpful, and those for whom it introduces bemusement and befuddlement, and for whom it isn’t.
I know where I fall in the spectrum.
Where do you?