I fall asleep imagining Japan.

I’m not restless; it’s normal that I should be awake at 3AM. My boyfriend lives in England and my best friend moved back to Finland.

So I’m up listening to a tiny creature make its way through the hallway wall. Maybe it’s my imagination though – I haven’t really been sleeping and I’m probably hallucinating.

I can hear my parents sleep. Wilson is chasing tall grass in his vivid dreams. It’s nice to be home sometimes. As much as I can’t wait to get my own place soon, I should probably treasure these last few months home.

There was something magical about my coming back home. My parents, the usual panicky and overachieving eastern European lot, have just chilled out. I told my Dad I’m probably going to be a criminal lawyer and he said that was pretty cool and asked if I wanted to watch Monty Python with him. So, we did.

Having not finished giving my novel the final edit, I’m naturally thinking of controversial pieces that could pick up in obscure circles. “Orpheus Or Philanderer? How Musicians will break your heart and Fail to Save your Ass from the Underworld” That one has great potential. I’m thinking Cobain and Sid Vicious mug shots with some girly groupie doodle font. Yah, I dig that.

I’m also sore from the damn personal training session. My trainer is thoughtful but clinical in his approach. He’s probably realised I’m a clumsy, tall horse of a woman who has yet to learn to carry her body in space well. We did a bunch of strength and balance tests and he kept inserting values into his iPad and pausing to bite his inner lip and think.

Oh God. This is bad.

The head trainer comes round and high fives me violently. I kind of really despise this.

“Right, um Adriana, your body fat percentage is 20. That’s great but we need to get it to 17% ok? You have so much potential with your height here. Potential to look like really great you know?”

-ugh-

“Okay but what about my left knee?”

“Oh right. We need to fix your body a bit. Your right shoulder is a mess and probably still sustaining an injury. See how you can’t pass the back test here? Not good buddy. (I don’t like “buddy”) Your left knee is busted because…well…you have weak ankles”

Instant image of me like Bambi on ice.

“No, I have strong ankles,” I reply with so much more hostility than I intended.

 He looks puzzled then frowns.

“No, it’s okay. It’ll be fine. Look –“ He shows me a tiny clip of me doing heel-ground kisses on an elevated surface.  Oh right, I failed to mention that part of my training involves him filming my work out and then showing me, on Paint, with red lines how I need to fix my body angle and alignment.

“This one is fine but here – you’re a leaf in the wind. I mean, your calves are slender but look at that leaf shake!”

I’ve learned a lot about myself from these sessions. Mostly I’m learning where to be hard, where to be soft.

I also learned I need to accept that high fiving is clearly something I now do. 

I imagine Beethoven with a personal trainer. Doing lunges in his suit. His crazy hair a sweaty mess dripping on the cerulean gym matts.

I imagine JS Bach instagramming a photo of his huge family. 13 kids. Writing out all their German names below the photo. Hashtagging the room they’re in. #lounge

I imagine Kafka finding Kant quotations on Google. Take screenshots of pastures on Pinterest. Then going to hang beside bridges all moody and pouty.

I fall asleep imagining I'm in Japan.