Confessions of Inertia

Sit down, we need to talk. 

I've got something to tell you that I've been keeping to myself like a shameful secret for a while now. It's grown so heavy and thick, I need to get it off my conscience so I can sleep better. 

Deep breaths. It's not about the children; they're fine. This is about me. 

Over the last year or so, I've developed an addiction. 

Every single day I crave this thing so deep within my bones that I have to have it, or I can't function. Without it, my body starts to break down and my brain begins to melt to uselessness.

I can survive from dawn until lunchtime, but then I start plotting and planning and counting the hours. What errand can I skip, what chore can I put off so I can get my fix? What is drop-dead necessary, and what can wait until I fulfill that indecent need burrowing inside my head? 

My friend, I'm profoundly addicted. To naps. 

It started innocently enough, just a recreational resting-my-eyes. I could get up anytime I wanted and forgo this blessed rest, this short escape from relentless adulthood.

I only did it occasionally at first. After a poor night's sleep, or a string of stressful days. But then it became the release I wasn't getting anywhere else - this slight sensation of sinking and floating at once, my mind loosening and shoulders unclenching if only for a short while. And I wanted it more and more.

Before long, I was doing it daily. I had built it into my schedule as surely as eating and reading the news. But I wasn't hurting anybody, and nobody needed to know. Nobody but the Boston terrier, who began to follow me around each day after lunch, staring at me with knowing brown eyes. You know you want to do it, he would say. Get the red blanket. Yes, that fuzzy one. It'll only be a half hour. An hour, tops. Then back to reality. C'mon. Let's do it. And then my co-conspirator would curl up behind my bent knees, under the fuzzy blanket, and snore softly while we both fell into oblivion for a short while.

He waits.

It felt so good, this slow, lazy letting-go and not-going-to.   

The next thing I knew, I started to need it in a physical way I could almost touch. My body pulled at me every afternoon, eyes drooping, thoughts slowing to molasses. The couch began to sing a siren song that could only be quieted by a throw pillow and an alarm. My desire was so great, so bottomless, I could no longer sit to read a book or play Sudoku without succumbing to the inevitable brief afternoon slumber. Just a short while, a little hit, gave me the strength I needed to go on about my day.

But I relied on it too much, I fear. My addiction has begun to consume me.

Now I'm doing it more than once a day - despite my afternoon nap, sometimes I still doze at 4 p.m. before making dinner, or at 7 p.m. after homework is complete. On my worst, most disgraceful days, I snooze for an hour  - or two! - on the couch, then go straight up to bed and still sleep through the night. I only do that on evenings the kids aren't home, of course. I wouldn't want them to see how low I've sunken into the cushions, and become embarrassed of my indulgence or angry at my inertia.

Do other adults suffer from the irresistible urge to drift off any time they sit down, and sometimes standing up?    

Most importantly, can I crawl out of my addiction and resist daily naps, or will I begin to nap more frequently and longer until one day I simply never awaken?

Only those who have been over the edge know, and they're too sleepy to talk.