Raindrops are rolling out of overfilled clouds and scattering evenly into our balcony planters from which seedlings slurp and spring skyward. The daisies are practically giddy; I, meanwhile, am tucked up inside with a mug of peppery chai trying to stave off nap-envy. As much as I would love to doze away the afternoon in a nest of flannel sheets, the results would not be pretty:
Exhibit A: Hungry children’s pleas for supper wake up my brain but otherwise fail to lodge it out of rigor mortis. (I have heard rumors that naps actually make some people less tired rather than more, but I’ve never come across any supporting evidence.)
Exhibit B: Mothering instincts eventually drag me out of bed by the ear; however, they do nothing to diminish my ill will toward mankind, specifically the portion of mankind requesting me to make pasta for them.
Exhibit C: I slump to the kitchen with all the motivation of a dead leaf and then realize how late the time is, how little I’ve accomplished today, and how very much I dislike existing.
Exhibit D: I stay up three hours past bedtime trying to accomplish more, more, more but really just stirring up dust and aggravating my rigor mortis… and then, when I finally lay me down to sleep, I can’t (see above re: nap).
I get that rest is important, and our gentle Italian life has helped me to see relaxation as a treasure rather than a waste of time, but I haven’t yet reached the stage of self-actualization that will let me wake up from a nap as anything other than an obsessive-compulsive corpse. So sorry rain and flannel and Siren-soft afternoon, but there will be no surrender today.