By Jon Show – My goodness I love to nap. In all forms.

An hourlong nap on the Fifth of July to counteract the festivities on the Fourth of July? Yes please. A fifteen-minute catnap on a random weekday, or a five-minute car nap on a hot August afternoon? Count me in.

But my favorite nap is one on the Sunday of a major golf championship.

I stood up last month at a Masters watch party (it may have been a kid’s birthday party) and announced my intention to return to my home across the street for a brief afternoon slumber.

“Sounds nice,” said my neighbor Skunk Hunter, as he tried to negotiate a scooter fight between his toddler and another kid at the party.

At 50, having spent thousands of hours in his position, I grabbed my chair, smirked and said, “I’ve earned my naps, buddy.”

And then I headed home to settle in for a few hours.

While I waited for exhaustion to wash over me, I started a text thread with some friends to numb my mind as I prepared to slumber, and sent the following:

Top Five Naps

Masters Sunday

New Year’s Day

Fifth of July

Poolside in the summer

Post-shower after a fishing weekend

Most of the guys confirmed my rankings, though a couple agreed that leaving off Thanksgiving was an absurd oversight. From all accounts they’re correct, but I can’t include it on my list because we always eat too late to take a nap.

They also added a post-lake-day-drinking nap, but for me, intoxication does not lend itself to a restful nap.

I really have no other requirement for napping other than sobriety.

I don’t need to be in bed or on a couch or a comfy chair. I don’t even need to be tired. I just need to have a clear mind and I’m out.

As long as I limit my naps to 30–45 minutes I usually awake refreshed. If one stretches to an hour in length I tend to feel groggy.

Yes, your grandma was correct. You can get too much of a good thing.

Napping isn’t a new thing for me. In my 20s and early 30s I napped most Sundays on my parents’ couch after spending the morning playing golf with my dad.

The addition of children in my mid-30s put a hiatus on my napping.

One of the last naps I took with young children was when Future Man was nine months old and I came home from an early-morning round of golf on a couples vacation. It was my turn to be a parent, so the Mother of Dragons handed me a colicky baby and went off to do something with her friend.

I napped, I had no choice, and my friend watched both of our kids. I arose feeling guilty and I quit golf a short time later.

If I couldn’t nap after a round then what was the point of playing golf?

My early forties were much the same. No time for naps when you’re taking kids to the park, a movie, the pool or on the boat all weekend.

But around my late 40s I returned to an occasional Sunday nap. At 50, I average one every other week.

Why not? I’m not sure my teenage kids even live here anymore. The Mother of Dragons packs her weekend with personal errands, only arriving home in the early evening for our dinner plans.

There’s no reason not to nap. So I do.

As it pertains to golf and the Masters, the docile voice of announcer Jim Nantz certainly helps. As does the chirping birds and soothing music of Kenny Loggins.

When I was a golf writer eons ago, I interviewed Nantz for a story. I don’t recall most of what he said, though I do remember his response when I told him I’d taken hundreds of naps to the sound of his voice.

“I hear ‘Hello friends’ and then it’s zzzzzzzz,” I shared.

“I get that a lot,” he said.

Am I narcoleptic? I don’t think so but I’ve noticed that at 50 years of age a nap sometimes jumps up and grabs me when I’m not looking for one.

Recently I walked out of my home office on a slow weekday afternoon when our friend The Glass Blower was working on the house.

He was speaking but I wasn’t processing what he was saying and he looked at me and said, “Hey bud, you’ve got a big red mark on your forehead.”

I’d just taken a 10-minute catnap with my forehead on my desk.

While my desk nap certainly wasn’t intentional, it’s important to note that I can’t go looking for a nap, even if I desperately need one. Over the years I’ve found that I just need to be open to a nap and, usually, one will find me.

That being said, I do need to put myself in a position to nap.

Usually on the couch or the back porch. Never in a bed. Feet always up.

Some form of head support helps but I’m also known to pass out with my neck at a 90-degree angle as if my head is searching for a pillow it just can’t find.

I’d like to say when my family stumbles upon me napping they respect my nocturnal state and tip toe around the house, but they do not.

They usually take the moment to fight over a pint of ice cream, unload groceries, or generally continue about the day in the same manner in which they would if I was not passed out on the couch.

I don’t complain because I shouldn’t. I’m the one who chose to sleep in the main nerve center of the home, but sometimes it would be nice to finish my nap without being jarred awake.

The Mother of Dragons is jealous of only one thing in our relationship and that is my ability to nap. She possesses a total inability to day sleep under any situation except extreme illness.

Often, after I awake from a nap, she will say to no one in particular, “I wish I could nap.” But she just can’t.

I’ve tried coaching her over the years. Tried offering suggestions on how she can improve her odds. But all to no avail.

Which is a shame. She’s earned her naps too.

Alas, she is the Blondie to my Dagwood, so I guess I’ll just have to nap for two.

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Jon Show lives in Robbins Park with his wife, who he calls “The Mother of Dragons.” Their 17-year-old son is “Future Man” and their 14-year-old daughter is “The Blonde Bomber.” Their dog is actually named Lightning.