I come from a decidedly pro-nap home. My mom, as long as I can remember, has been fond of retreating for a few minutes or hours in the afternoon to “rest her eyes.” Countless Sunday afternoons of my childhood consisted of this: Mass at 12:30, begging Mom and Dad to go out to lunch, maybe going out to lunch or just getting Ruffles chips and Sour Cream ‘n’ Chive dip at the grocery store, feasting, and then everyone would kind of retreat into quiet corners for sleeping. Everyone likes naps, everyone can take them, and nobody has a problem with using any couch or borrowing anyone’s bed to do so. (We don’t get upset about dumb stuff.)

If I had my way, I’d sleep from about midnight to 5 or 6 a.m., and then again from 2 to 4 p.m. I’m worthless in the afternoons anyway — sleepy — especially if my lunch includes even a single carb (unless I combat it with tons of iced tea). Barring just the right chemical composition of my afternoon meal, I’m sort of zombielike until Afternoon Coffee saves the day around 4.

I was a gifted and reliable napper until summer 2007. That summer, I had a copy editing internship at the Indianapolis Star. It was a real sweet gig — especially because I only had one job — but the thing is, I got out of work around 1:30 a.m., then we’d go have a drink at a bar, then I’d drive home at about 3. Or stay up even later and crash at a friend’s house. Which was great for everyone else, because we didn’t have to show up until 4:30 in the afternoon. I, however, am through-and-through a Morning Person, and was physically incapable of sleeping in past 9 a.m. until the eighth week of the 10-week internship. “Fine,” I thought those first few weeks, as I read the entire newspaper and schlepped to the apartment complex’s gym. “I’ll just catch up in the afternoon.” And every afternoon, I’d lie down in the perfectly quiet house and try to sleep. But I was too anxious. I’d worry about everything, or nothing, and toss and turn, and then it would be time to get ready for work. This nap-preventing anxiety carried through much of my 26-month stint in California, sometimes even on weekends, and that was a damn shame, too.

But now I am getting my skills back. I’m taking a two-month hiatus at home. I don’t have a bed, bedroom or closet here, but I do get to use the couch in the basement entertainment room, unless someone calls dibs and has friends over. I also don’t have a job, responsibilities or deadlines, and I receive few calls or e-mails. I do the crossword every morning, spend entire days in sweatpants, and — hand to God — almost never want to do anything but talk to my parents and siblings. The items in my calendar on a recent week were “Monday, lunch with Aunt Sue” and “Friday, haircut.” Even going to a friend’s house feels a bit like a chore. So, just when I convinced myself I could live without, my naps have returned, like a lover from a long voyage at sea. And our reunion is even better than the first time around, because I’m not taking even a 20-minute “rest my eyes” period for granted.

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