In praise of the daytime snooze
If joy had a mascot, it would be a nap
I’m a napper. In my younger days, I could have made the US Olympic napping team if such an event existed. Though I don’t partake as often as I used to, I still keep my hand in—turn on soothing music (Tibetan singing bowls are a favorite), put head on pillow (sofa, bed, whatever), close my eyes, and drift.
Napping is travel without luggage, luxury without the spa bill, rebellion without the consequences. In under an hour (often longer in my case), you can reboot your brain, reset your body, and sidestep sending that snippy email about someone stealing your yogurt.
Your napping menu
Forget laziness—napping is strategy. And like cocktails, naps come in distinct varieties. Submitted for your consideration: a menu of naps.
The power nap (10–20 minutes)
The espresso shot of sleep. No drool, no dreams, just a quick reboot.
Good for: office warriors, students, and anyone who wants science’s blessing to shut their eyes at lunch.
The cat nap (15–30 minutes)
Short, stylish, smug—like the animal it’s named for.
Good for: lazy Sundays, “just resting my eyes” lies, and achieving that glow that says I nap better than you.
The NASA nap (26 minutes exactly)
Astronauts do it, and so can you. NASA swears 26 minutes is the sweet spot for max alertness.
Good for: pilots, truckers, and cubicle astronauts who enjoy oddly specific alarms.
The disco nap (30–45 minutes)
The pre-party pit stop. You nap now so you can say yes to dessert and the after-party.
Good for: night owls, over-30s pretending to be 20, and anyone with “pace yourself” in their vocabulary.
The siesta (60–90 minutes)
The full REM ride. You dream, you drool, you wake up unsure what year it is.
Good for: lazy weekends, heroic brunchers, and channeling your inner Spaniard.
The accidental nap (?? minutes)
Not planned, but glorious. One episode, one chapter, one scroll later—you’re gone.
Good for: rainy days, road trips (passengers only), and those delicious moments when the nap chooses you.
Beware the nap hangover
This is a risk when crossing the 90-minute line—waking up groggy, medieval, and slightly angry at clocks. Consider yourself warned.
Final word
Naps aren’t childish—they’re tiny vacations without TSA lines. They’re joy in pillow and blankie form. So claim your couch, mattress, or lounger, set your timer, and drift. The world can wait.
