The 3 O’clock Hour

I HATE 3 O’clock. It doesn’t matter if I’ve gotten up that day at 5am, 9am, or noon – something happens at 3pm that leaves me absolutely lifeless. As a nanny in Milan, I would board a bus every day around this time. I would sit, peering out the window, in a city so foreign and intoxicating to me most of the time, wanting nothing more than to die in my seat. Imagining soon being with children made things even worse. Death become me, I’d pray.  After sluggishly descending the stairs, I would pop into a café, knowing there was no other way.

Had someone offered me a nap in place of the drug, I wouldn’t have even considered it. I have hated naps since the point at which I am able to remember them. They don’t refuel me; they drain me. I don’t even enjoy the falling-into-sleep part, as I am already anxious about the shitty-waking-up-part. On any given day in the past, when sleep started to seem attractive to me, I’d shake it off and drink a cup of coffee.

Things are different here and now. 3 o’clock rolls around and I can’t justify the ingestion of caffeine; I have lowly funds and nothing that I ‘need’ to do. Sitting across from Bela, watching her eyes roll back in her head, I have begun to experiment with the art of napping.

I’m not deep enough into the experiment, nor quite the age of elderly to report back any positives quite yet. I’m still hating it. I am (somehow) resenting it, shaking my fist at it and railing against it….all whilst curling up, midday, with the windows open and a breeze on the back of my neck…

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