Before I let the clock begin its tick, I sat up and tried to angle myself out of the pod, craning my neck to see if anyone else was dozing around me. I could not tell, no matter how hard I looked, whether the other pods were occupied. The whooshing sound, which I realized was identical to the engine and wind background noise on a plane, was so loud that I didn't think I could hear a snore or yawn, let alone a rustle of blanket from my neighboring pods. Several people who'd heard I'd be MetroNapping had asked me the same question: Can you have sex in the pods? Yes, I concluded, provided that you kept the moaning down and cut some sort of deal with the pod monitor.

OK, I had stalled enough. It was time to nap. I put my headphones on and flipped the switch. The light went off. I stared ahead, thinking that the ambient music really sounded like a light-saber battle: a lot of electronic swishing and keyboard psychedelia. I reached up and touched the top of the pod; its texture -- like a hardened Plasticine oil painting -- recalled the multistoried fiberglass treehouse from the Philadelphia Zoo of my childhood. They used to give you these cool plastic rings when you went in that you could use when you saw a certain light and the rings would make a diorama about termites or poisonous tree frogs light up. It's been years since I went to the zoo. I wonder if they let adults climb the treehouse ...

I realized with a jolt that I might have already blown five of my 20 minutes of allotted naptime and I wasn't asleep yet. I had been afraid that I'd be struck by performance anxiety. I tried to shut my brain down. OK, sleep now, I thought, staring ahead. OK, now. I squinched my eyes shut.

I have never been a good napper. But I am a very good sleeper. I've never struggled with insomnia; I can fall asleep with the lights on, with the television on, while someone is talking to me, while someone is making out with me. You create the distracting condition; I'll sleep through it. If I had my way I'd get nine hours every night, but since I rarely get home before midnight, that's difficult. If I get under six hours I become bitchier than usual and cry hourly. But generally, I don't nap. First of all, I never bought the quality-over-quantity philosophy when it comes to matters of sleep, food and sex. If it's really that great, then I want a lot of it. A "good nap" is an oxymoron. If it were really good, I'd better be allowed to enjoy it straight through till morning.

So here I was in a large plexiglass egg, questioning my decision not to order food before my nap. When you check into MetroNaps they ask if you'd like to choose from a menu of 16 sushi and deli items; the stuff gets delivered and is waiting for you when you awake. Lindholst had explained that it helps workers get in a quick snooze on their lunch hour without sacrificing good nutrition. But by phone the day before, he'd advised me to eat before I came for my 2 p.m. appointment so that I'd be groggy. I had dutifully consumed a malai kebab and a poori, but was thinking that maybe my body would have been more cooperative if it was getting rewarded with a nice chicken salad on the other end.

I was still conscious, and now I didn't even have a guess about how much time had elapsed.

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