Might I Suggest Faking a Holiday Nap?

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There’s nothing like visiting your parents to help you assess the origins of your personality traits. From my mother, I received endless energy, obstinance, and curiosity—though I tragically did not receive superb hand-eye coordination. From my father, I received resourcefulness, endurance, and a love of dancing—and, also tragically, I did not receive his ability to nap. He naps every single day and wakes up refreshed and kind. Unfortunately, I inherited my mother’s relationship to napping, which is either a complete non-starter situation or conking out for three hours and waking as irritable as we are confused.

Yet my mother and father do not know I can’t sleep at all in the middle of the day. In fact, they assume I’m quite the napper! That’s because every time I’ve visited for the holidays since I left for college, I regularly excuse myself for a daily afternoon lie-down. “Ugh, you’re so lucky you’re like Dad,” my sister will say. A neighbor who comes every Thanksgiving always makes the acorn-doesn’t-fall-far analogy.

The acorn has lied though. I’m almost never napping. I don’t believe it started this way, though. Without being fully conscious of it—“not being fully conscious” being a major attraction of this premise—I’ve been practicing the fake nap for years.

It started with a genuine aspiration to nap. Every time I returned home to my parents’ house—from college, first job, second job, zillionth job—for the holidays, I was very tired. I’d go into it thinking there would be a complete break from the sources of fatigue—no work! no social plans!—only to realize that there are, in fact, social plans galore. There are siblings and cousins and family friends and other people everywhere. And also can I help my parents clear out the basement? Of course I am a saint and very obliging, so I do really love to help. But home is not as peaceful and quiet as I always think it might be. My instinct for a break from all this hits me midday, so, I announce, “I’m going to take a quick nap.” The comfort of a childhood bed and washed-into-oblivion soft sheets call to me.

And then, as soon as I enter the privacy of my chambers, I am re-energized by the peace of my own company. I’m not that sleepy at all anymore.

I don’t enter into this ruse as a fib so much as a delusion: I really believe that I’m going to nap every time. I sometimes pretend to read. This is actually the biggest part of my attempts: I’ll grab a boring book from my parents or The Economist on purpose to lull me off. I forget that The Economist is actually very good and that Henry Miller writes hot sex books. There was also a line about napping in Tropic of Cancer (“a beautiful nap this afternoon that put velvet between my vertebrae”) that felt like an acknowledgment of my schemes and also very enviable.

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