I take these naps sometimes — after my shift is up and the sun’s going down.
I’ll take all my good clothes off and put on a shirt with holes in it and sweatpants so worn out and thin that I’m pretty sure they don’t qualify as pants anymore.
Then I have this collection of hospital socks — dozens of pairs I’ve accumulated over the years from all the sick people I’ve known. I’ll put on a golden pair or a blue pair or a brown pair, whichever one feels right.
I’ll take my salty contact lenses out and put on my shitty glasses, the ones with the plastic frames that aren’t in style anymore and have a loose hinge on the left arm.
In the cupboard I’ll find my favorite mug, the one with the chip in the lip. I fill it with coffee and lay on my couch and hug a pillow under my arm.
By now the night has fallen and the room is mostly dark and the only sound I hear is my old cat snoring in his bed.
I take long, slow sips as my eyelids get heavy. I tuck my left hand in my sweatpants, not to touch my nuts or anything, just to keep it as warm and secure as my other hand holding the coffee. Finally, I doze off.
See, these coffee naps aren’t for recharging. They aren’t because I’m tired or sleep deprived or because I’m a baby who can’t handle life. These coffee naps are to purge the bullshit and the daily toxins — the stuff that accumulates from unsatisfying work, from a life unfulfilled, and from all the incessant hours of interacting with crappy people — this adult nap is to help cleanse all the pointless garbage from my brain so I can stay sane enough to think about the things that matter.
Garbage Notes: