The Perfect Metaphor

To me, naps are exactly like cigarettes. 99 % of the time I am thinking rationally and can tell you that I don't like them. Not at all. They make me feel dirty, hurt and worse.

But every now and then, once in a blue moon, I get it into my head that maybe, just maybe, they are exactly what the Doctor ordered. And I go for it.

Now here is where we need to divide the metaphor.

With cigarettes, I get more and more in the mood the more I think about it. "Yah, I toooootally need a smoke." I might even plan my outfit accordingly. You know, something a smoker would wear. Like a crazy hat and jeans with holes. I go to the 7-Eleven and make my request like a regular, all non-chalant like. I do this all the time, my vibe indicates. And then. Reality wins again. About as soon as I light up I regret it and am immediately reminded that I actually hate smoking. I feel like I'm being asphyxiated by burnt deli meat, probably Hillshire Farms Oven Roasted Turkey. But you'd better believe I stick with it, smoke that cig right down to the filter, maybe out of stubborn resistance to being so uncool, maybe because I don't believe in wasting tobacco. Regardless, I push through against my better judgement only to wind up feeling worse after all is said and smoked.

With naps, same deal. I think about it all morning (while sitting in church, let's say...) and get pumped about my glorious naptime to come. In my mind, there is nothing that I need more, nothing that can stop me, and nothing more look-forwardable to. But lo and behold, as soon as I lay my head down, I realize "woah, this isn't gonna work". What do I do, though? I continue to toss and turn, somewhere in between sleep and awake, or, for the layman, in a place called pergatory. Awful. Just like a cigarette, I push through. I go ahead and lay there for a solid 2 or 3 hours, not really sleeping, usually sweating and always mad at myself. No question, the rest of the day is wasted, and I wander around just more tired than before and feeling like I've been slapped around with a greasy oven mitt.

There you have it. The perfect metaphor.