So I went back to sleep.
I woke up an hour later, wishing I hadn’t stayed up to finish the movie the night before. I couldn’t miss the next class. I dragged myself out of my bed. The impression left by my body looked strangely empty and desolate. As I opened my dresser drawers, picking out clothes for the day, my pajamas rubbed against my skin seductively. “Come to bed with us,” they murmured. “You know you want to.” I glanced back towards the bed. My pillows were shooting me covert glances. I began to waver, and was just about to crawl back under the covers when I glanced at the clock and realized that I was about to be late to a class that I absolutely couldn’t miss. Frantically, I yanked off my pajamas, shutting them in the drawer, and hurriedly made my bed. There. That was better. Surely I’d be safe now.
But I’d forgotten about the naps.
This being my sophomore year of college, I knew a lot about naps. I had learned the year before that naps are vicious. They attack suddenly and without warning. I was attacked by one in my freshman year: I was sitting on my bed, doing homework, when suddenly I was forced down onto my stomach by a nap. Once I was reclining, the battle was over.
Today was different, though. It began stalking me as soon as I sat down in class. It sat in the seat behind me and stared holes in the back of my head, making concentration impossible. In chapel, it sat beneath my pew and snapped at my ankles. It wasn’t ready to devour me yet, however. It just wanted to play with me for a while, wear down my defenses. Finally, it cornered me in my room, an hour before dinner. It didn’t let me go until well after dinner had begun. I almost missed my meal.