The sauna-like heat that usually steams the garbage up from the sidewalks of New York City and makes me gag has been particularly pleasant this summer. I think it was in the 70s. Not humid. Breezy. I slept until after 10 this morning and took the cross-town bus to visit my nephew around noon. After brunch, I had every reason to stroll through the park, visit a museum, read a book. But my family isn’t really the kind of group that basks in the outdoors. We went back to my sister’s house, and I sat on the couch with my father showing him how to find his Hotmail on his iPad. Within a little while, I was tired. My mother, always perceptive and wanting me to get my rest, encouraged me to lie down.
I curled up on my sister’s bed, and I slept for not one, not two, not three, but four hours. No one in my family bothered me. It was a glorious nap. A chocolate soufflé of naps: indulgent and warm. In the past, I would have woken up from a nap like that and felt angry with myself for wasting the day, for being lazy. I got eight hours of sleep last night: what business did I have sleeping al that time today? Now I’ve come to realize that I need the extra sleep. That sleep is not for the week. That it’s OK if I, if you, if anyone needs a four hour nap in the middle of an August day. So what if I didn’t go to the park. I got to recharge for four hours.