I recently moved back in with my parents. Relatively frequent blogging doesn’t pay, who knew! Oh, and I think I heard something about the economy being… bad? Don’t quote me on that.
I tried to mentally prepare myself for the transition. And by this I mean I tried to premeditatively reconcile myself with the fact that, from the moment I dumped my clothes and my dignity onto the floor of my bedroom, I was effectively relinquishing my peaceful napping privileges.
Maybe it’s their generation, it’s impossible to be sure, but whatever it is, my parents seem to find the concept of napping to be utterly foreign. To them, a nap is symptomatic of a number of things, which, in turn, inspire a multitude of pestering questions. For example:
- Why are you napping?
- Are you sick?
- Why are you so tired? Why do you need so much sleep?
- Are you okay? Is something wrong?
- Did you get enough sleep last night?
- Shouldn’t you be looking for a job?
- Don’t you have better things to do?
Okay, maybe those last two aren’t completely unwarranted. After all, the answers are, respectively: probably, and yes I certainly do.
The kicker is that most of these age-old inquiries are directed at me not before, nor after any particular nap, but rather they are voiced from the other side of my purposefully closed door while I am in the midst of a nap. I’d say that in any given instance, there’s a 50/50 chance that I will be woken up at some point by either an infuriating, tentatively posed question I have rolled my eyes at a million times before, or by a very slow, very sneaky, very squeaky, telltale twist of the door knob – my mom’s way of “subtly” peering into the room to check on me.
Basically, here in the Tolfa household, the obstacles facing one trying to get away with an innocent 45 minute uninterrupted daytime nap are uncannily comparable to those facing one trying to successfully shoot heroin while indulging in 45 minutes of smooth jazz. And, now that I think about it, most of the aforementioned questions can apply in either situation.
So, anyway, it comes down to this: instead of falling asleep the moment my head hits its designated napping pillow at 3:30 most afternoons, (a habit I apparently took for granted while living elsewhere), I now often find myself lying in bed with my eyes closed and my ears on alert and my heart racing for a good 25 to 30 minutes before I reluctantly throw in the towel, get up grumpily and find someone to snap at.
Then I start scouring the Internet for English language publishing jobs in Spain where, from what I think I may have heard in my high school Spanish class some seven years ago, they let you go home every afternoon for a siesta. That’s the dream.