Epis0de 97

Don't sleep on this Epis0de.

I used to hate naps as a kid, like many adults used to when they were young, and many kids still do today. Just the thought that anyone would ever ask me to use my oh-so-valuable time, time I could be using to watch Power Rangers, to lay down and SLEEP would be enough to make me crash out back then. Because it made absolutely no sense to me. What do you mean that after spending most of the day in school against my will and finally making it home, I should then voluntarily become unconscious when there are cartoons to watch, and friends from the neighborhood depending on me to bring out my ball so we can play a few games before it gets too dark outside? As how?

At the time the only thing more annoying than suggesting a siesta was whichever adult that suggested it also insisting that I’d understand the importance “one day.” Even more annoying is the fact that they were right after all. As an adult, sleep is pretty much all luxury and no punishment now. These days I can’t wait to be horizontal in bed. If someone told me I had three free hours to do whatever I wanted, you wouldn’t catch me doing anything obviously productive. It would be sleep. Actually, you know what, don’t even bother telling me. Just knock me out with a frying pan and lay me flat on my back.

But now here’s the issue. It feels like despite needing and/or wanting to rest or relax now more than ever, I somehow seem to be getting worse at actually doing it. Sometimes I’ll have a free evening with absolutely nothing pressing to do, think about turning on my video game console for a bit, and then immediately start feeling guilty about it. Not because I’ve forgotten something, just this nagging feeling that I’m not being productive enough. I absolutely fucking hate it. Because now I gotta go find something else adequately “constructive” to do, like take an online course or try to write. When all I really wanted to do was shoot some enemy soldiers in the head with an automatic rifle. Shout-out to Call of Duty.

Somewhere along the line as we get older, many of us acquire the notion that being busy is the best proof that we’re doing life correctly. So the person answering emails at midnight is “dedicated,” and the one working through migraines while missing life's little moments is “committed.” It’s mad, feeling like your worth is tied to your usefulness in the great wheel of capitalism. Because then you start to feel like you can only stop once you’ve done enough to earn a break. But “enough” isn’t real. Not really. There’ll always be one more item on the agenda, and one more bill to pay. The finish line will always keep moving, and if you keep waiting to cross it before you can rest, that’s a pretty straight line to being found dead of a heart attack on a Monday morning, slumped against the door of your car with your key still in the door. This actually happened to someone.

So yeah, work hard. Chase your goals. Pay your bills. Try to build something you’re proud of, and all that. Just don’t forget to occasionally lie down and chill. Eight-year-old me would’ve hated that advice. Thirty-six-year-old me thinks it might just save your life.

In fact, I’m a little sleepy right now, to be honest.