The Nap Chair

It might be in your living room.  Maybe in your basement.  It could be in your garage, or the sunroom, or on the patio.  It may even be in your bedroom, feet away from your bed.  Wherever it is, there is no escaping its power.  A slide into its embrace, and you slip into a drooling, head twitching, fog induced coma.  This is The Nap Chair.

There are two places to sleep in your home.  Your bed is the first.  Familiar, comfortable, with bends and pits and folds you have eroded into your mattress and pillow over time.  When you lay down to sleep in your bed, you’re settling in to drift away.  You are accepting.  You are prepared.


The second place, is The Nap Chair.  This is a place of uncontrolled envelopment.  A spot you approach with a shoulder shrug of napping indifference.  Sometimes you seek it out, knowing what could happen in the near future.  Other times, the darkness of semi-consciousness and light to moderate snoring sneaks up on you without warning.  And you love it.

The Nap Chair is where you go when you are OK with falling asleep, but don’t want to mentally shout “I am going to sleep this part of my potentially productive day away.”  You lower yourself into your chair or couch, propping up pillows, your hand curled armed with a fistful of blanket summoned from a box or the back of the furniture. The remote lays within arms reach.  Your drink sits on a table nearby.  A half open bag or box of your current indulgence tempts you, crumbs trailing along the floor to your nest of comfort.  “I may not fall asleep,” you think, “but I’ll allow the possibility.”

Shortly after finding your position of comfort, the process of furniture-to-body osmosis begins.  Your spine melts into the cushions.  Your chin slowly dips lower and lower, like a sleepy gravy smothering a tender slice of consciousness.  Your arms, once alive and strong, sink heavily by your sides or into your chest.  Your eyelids begin fusing together, sounds start to muffle.  The remote tips from your hand…

…your body CONVULSES with a system-resetting shake.  You look around, wide eyed, as your cerebellum fires a warning shot…”Are you sure you want this to happen?”  The Nap Chair whispers in your ear…


…SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.   Just let it happen…..


…and you drift into darkness.

30 to 7000 minutes later, you awaken.  A confusion bordering on a drunken stupor envelopes you.  The remote is buried in the cushions.  The blanket, now stretched and pinned in a tapestry covering 11% of your body.  Your neck is cocked at an alarming angle causing palpable doubt it will ever go straight again.  One or more of your limbs slowly warms to a tingle, having been cut off from proper circulation throughout.  Your eyelids, glued together with a sleepy syrup, struggle against the light.  Your mouth feels like a warm milky cotton ball, somehow dry and moist at the same time.  Your hair defies physics.  Your brain is a smoky, densely packed fog.  You are confused but somehow know, you must sit up.

You check the time.  You check the date.  You shut off the TV.  You struggle to your feet, dragging your blanket along side.  Shuffling out of the room, you look back a last time, surveying the devastated pit of hibernation you are leaving behind.

The Nap Chair has conquered you.  It will conquer you again.  And you will let it.




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