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I love sloths. Not only are they adorable, quirky little fellas, but they’re also my spirit animal. Sometimes I consider myself a sloth born in a human body. Can I put that in my passport?

I was born lazy. I hated going hiking in kindergarten, but loved to sit quietly inside, drawing pictures. Preferably on a couch. The day my parents put away my stroller, I recall not understanding why they would do that to me; making me walk when I had a perfectly fine vehicle where I could relax while enjoying the outside. Little did I know that the societal pressure to move oneself only gets worse with age.

My husband has spent the last nine years trying to get me to do sports, with very little success. My laziness is unbeatable, chronic, and definitely a very dominant part of my whole being. I consider working out masochism, and the gym a foul place where evil flourishes.

So, maybe I’ll die in my thirties, or maybe I’ll live to a hundred, having the heart of a newborn baby. It is actually considered one of nature’s great mysteries that I’m not the size of a whale. (Although on some days, I do feel like a small whale. A sperm whale?)

It would probably be a good thing to point out that I’m not talking about general activities. I’m quite active, mostly working with my hobbies, and my job (whichever job I’m working at) is really important to me. I’m talking about physical movement, and on the other side of the scale, the beauty of relaxation.

To share my insight, here comes a small presentation on how to lazy like a self-declared pro like me.

• If you live in a city, – memorize all the metro, bus and tram lines. These can help you get from one place to another with minimum effort. Always work against it when the city decides to change a line, as this easily can result in planning errors that again can result in having to walk places.

• If you have regular stops where you get on and off, always get in on the end of the vehicle that takes you closer to your final destination. Meters saved are never to be underestimated.

• If you like me have heard people say that one hour of working out prolongs your life with one hour, ask yourself this question; do you want to live that hour now, when you’re young, or when you’re old, weak and possibly senile?

• When needing to buy something, always go to the nearest location. Do not ever walk further to find a grocery store instead of a kiosk; the extra money you might end up spending is a small price to pay for not having to move more than absolutely necessary.

• Take escalators and elevators. If you’re claustrophobic, consider it therapy. I used to dislike elevators myself until I realized that my laziness totally beats my fear.

• Always shower at night, so you can sleep longer in the morning. I would tell you to make your outfit ready too, but because my body sometimes feels like a gift from God, and other times like a ball of fat, I cannot do so myself.

• Marry someone with a driver’s license and a car, but do not ever take your own license. This way you can remain a happy passenger, always enjoying a glass (or bottle) of wine, before napping while being transported around by your spouse.

• Have cats. Cats are lazy and sleepy creatures that will support your way of life. Sloths will also work, but I tend to recommend cats for obvious reasons.

• Get an injury. Injuries make great excuses not to move. When I was sixteen a girl in my class had a back operation and legally skipped gym class for a year. I was so jealous. Damn you, healthy body!

• If you are blessed with a meaty ass like I am, sit on it. That’s what it’s for. A meaty ass provides a comfortable cushion on whichever hard surface you need to rest upon.

• If you really need to do sports (y tho?), find one that appeals to your lazy side. Like biking; you sit while you’re working out. Or yoga, lying down half of the workout session. It’s on the borderline, but I can accept it.

• But preferably, devote yourself to activities that require you to sit down. Like drawing, writing, or something else where no one will question why you’re not moving.

• Never ever go to the mountain.

And lastly, never hide your laziness, celebrate it!

As a bonus, I will reveal that although I am a complete disaster at most sports, there is one I’m actually ridiculously good at. Ping pong.

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My first home was a big city apartment, not far from where I currently live. This was in 1989, and renting or buying a place in Oslo was significantly cheaper than now. I was about one year old when my parents took me to live in the suburbs, but I always imagined that my love for city sounds when I sleep, is due to my very first year of being alive, certainly hearing cars and voices from the streets both days and nights.

The first house I recall was a small, red house with a lovely garden. At least that’s how I remember it. We had courgettes, yellow, green and blue plums, apples, pears, red currant and blueberry bushes, and even a cherry tree which usually got five cherries on top, that we could never reach. My father built me a dollhouse which was much bigger than dollhouses usually are, and I decorated it with miniature furniture and old pictures.

Back to the house; the kitchen had a checkered floor, and the dining table was in front of the window, where I would always watch the trains from the close-by train station pass by. Sometimes there were red, cheerful-looking passenger trains, other times brown, mysterious cargo trains, that seemed everlastingly long. I fantasized about jumping on to one of them to see where they would take me, half adventurous, half mortified.

The walls of the house were colorful and the rooms randomly furnished, and I specifically remember the dark brown front door, which had a mark from a break-in that had happened before I was born.

In my room, I had a tiny walk-in closet (that I did not yet appreciate for the same reasons as I now do) with a big, white door. On that door, I put all the stickers I could collect. That door was my greatest pride. On my window, I had a pair of deep pink curtains, and I clearly remember seeing them blow gently in the breeze, as I listened to the sighs from the trains parking in the distance.

Our mailbox was hundreds of meters from the house, and I used to sit on the back of my mother’s bike while we went grocery shopping and checking for letters. On the way there we had to pass by a strange industrial building, with an open path underneath. In the middle of it, there was a kind of column with stairs inside, where I sometimes would see an older boy going up and down. It always puzzled me how anyone could live there.

There were several stray cats in the neighborhood, and one of them suddenly decided to stop being terrified and became ours. My mother fed him tiny pieces of bread with liver pâté, and he eagerly ate it, looking all fabulous in his black and white tuxedo. He didn’t want to go inside, – his soul was still too wild, – but my tiny self had already discovered her love for felines.

We moved when I was eight. The cat had disappeared a while ago, so what really broke my heart was leaving the dollhouse, the fruit trees, and the closet door. The new house was much bigger, nicer, and in a better neighborhood, so I was also excited, but suddenly saddened when realizing I would never again live in the only place I knew as home.

I soon learned that the house had been bought by Mercedes Bentz, and that it was due to be torn down within the next few years. It felt like having betrayed an old friend, and I spent the rest of my childhood years coming up with more or less ingenious ideas for saving my previous home from certain death.

The building of the new Mercedes store was getting postponed time after time, and I dreaded the day when I eventually would see the property empty. I started thinking about knocking on the door, asking the temporary residents to allow me to pay the house a final visit, but I never had the courage to do so. I just kept planning, wishing, and hoping that some miracle would appear from above.

One day it did. It came through a tiny ad in the local paper, showing a picture of my house on the top of a huge truck. I was already old enough not to care as much as I once did, but for a moment I was brought back. A family had purchased it and attached it to their existing one to expand it. And I knew that the love I had felt for my childhood home had paid off in the case of an extremely unlikely coincidence. I went to see the house’s new location, and I instantly knew it had got a nice, new family to enjoy life within its walls. I was so relieved and happy. I had saved it. The power of thought was a real thing.

Getting older and revisiting the house in photographs, I suddenly understood the level of improvement my parents had done when changing houses. The eyes I had previously seen through had never noticed what I now would have categorized as a redecoration object.

I felt lucky to get to peak through those eyes as an adult. And I realized that such naïvety is a blessing one can never regain.

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I’m way above averagely interested when it comes to languages, words and grammar. I simply cannot understand people who move abroad without learning the local language at least decently well. However, I do realize that this interest is what most people would categorize as one of great nerds. I do admit it, but I’m not ashamed. I do not learn languages for practical purposes, but for the joy of it. Because they actually taste good in my mouth. Facepalm? I know.

I started learning Spanish in 2009. It was a quick, sometimes embarrassing, but joyful process. As years went by, I kept on teaching myself the slangiest slang I could possibly find. And I have come to realise that Spanish is a humorous, rich but oh so damn brutal language. If you think your own mother tongue has some juicy stuff, I dare say you will be defeated. Just wait for it. And stop reading if you consider yourself a sensitive soul.

Puta. Everybody knows this one, but I’m starting soft. Puta means whore, but the interesting thing about puta, is that is can be both good and bad. Su puta madre is bad. His/her mother is a whore; obviously bad. Or is it that obvious? Moving on to de puta madre. Es un tío de puta madre! He is a guy from a mother who’s a whore. Great! Best compliment ever! Two small letters difference, guys. Welcome to Spain.

Coño. Probably also a familiar one to certain people, literally meaning pussy. The interesting thing about this one though, is that everybody uses it. All. The. Time. Like, you go to the pharmacy, and the pharmacist drops a package of meds on the floor. PUSSY! I mean, if that happened to me in English or Norwegian, my jaws would drop to the floor. Spanish people don’t even react. At least the female genitalia is not a taboo.

Joder. Literally means fuck, but it’s not really used as a verb. They have another word for that. This one is as frequently used as the previous, and you will hear it from children, sweet old ladies, and everything in between. I’ve even heard a monk say it. Conservative, Catholic Spain, you say?

Soplapollas. Now we are getting into the really interesting ones. This is one of my favorite words and basically means cockblower. I seem to think it translates better to idiot or fool because it somehow has a kind of innocent, humorous touch. Always makes me smile.

La polla. Here comes a piece of provocative language sexism! If something is la polla (the cock), it’s great. Now read the next one.

Un coñazo. This means big pussy, and if something is un coñazo, you can be sure that it is a big pain in the arse!

Cantamañanas. If someone calls you this, it means that you’re kind of an idiot. In a charming, sweet way. It’s not really an insult. Literally, it translates to a morning singer, which I totally identify with, as anyone who interrupts my mornings with singing, is obviously an idiot.

Abrazafarolas. A streetlight hugger! Isn’t that great? It has the same meaning as cantamañanas, but this one is even more descriptive. You hug streetlights as if you were wasted. You can’t be very clever. You’re loving though!

Tienes los cojones grandes y bien plantados. You have big and well-placed balls. A very illustrating way of describing someone who gives a whole lot of fucks.

Cojonudo. Balls are usually a good thing in Spanish. So if something is ballsy, it’s awesome.

Estás como una cabra. Spanish goats must be crazy. If you’re like a goat, that’s exactly what you are.

Eres más raro que un perro verde. You are weirder than a green dog. So many words for calling someone weird!

Eres más simple que el mecanismo de un botijo. You are simpler than the mechanism of a mug. Again, so much work!

Eres más pesado que una vaca en brazos. Pesado means heavy in Spanish, but it is also slang for pain in the ass. Knowing that this joyful phrase gets a double meaning; you are heavier/more of a pain in the ass than carrying a cow in your arms. Also reasonably descriptive.

Eres más tonto que Abundio, que vendió el coche para comprar gasolina. You’re more stupid than Abundio (very, very strange, old Spanish name), who sold his car to buy gas. Maybe there’s a reason why the name isn’t really in use anymore.

Eres más tonto que Abundio, que se cortó una oreja porque la tenía repitida. Abundio again, this time he cut his ear off, because he had two. Who the hell is this guy?

Vete a hacer gargaras con la regla de tu madre. Ok, brace yourself for the worst of them all. Fuck off. Or, as our Spanish friends may say; Go gargle your mother’s period. Grossness times a hundred. This one thankfully isn’t very common, but I for one am saving it for a time someone really insults me. Can’t wait to see their face. Just. So many nopes.

No menees tanto el culo, que se te van a marear las bragas. Now, moving on to the compliments. This somewhat strange phrase translates to; Don’t shake your ass so much, your knickers are gonna get dizzy. Exactly what all women want to hear!

Estás como para comerte y luego coserse el culo para no cagarte. So, you’re on a date with a handsome, dark-haired Spanish Latino lover, he leans forward and whispers in your ear; you are so fine I’m gonna eat you and sew my ass closed so I don’t shit you out again. Seriously? Who makes up this stuff? So, this situation probably wouldn’t happen, because to use this phrase, you got to be like the tackiest person ever to have been born. It does exist, but it’s brutal even to these guys. I can’t help laughing at it though. And the fact that it’s actually meant as a compliment.

Ok, I feel like I blew up the shock scale like three phrases ago. But, if you memorize a few of these ones for your next vacation to Spain, you will definitely impress the locals, and probably make them laugh. Or possibly punch you in the face.

There is more where it came from.

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I hereby present two of my most common traits; I tend to personify things. I tend to have some level of insomnia.

Insomnia might not sound like such a big deal for those who have not had it. But in addition to messing up your nights (hence also your days), insomnia is both a cause for and an effect of mental diagnoses like anxiety and depression. Believe me, I’ve had it all, but I still don’t know if the chicken or the egg came first.

Well, all of these things can be cured one way or the other, but the trauma of insomnia is what still haunts its victim, even in the healthiest of times.

I love sleeping, and if nobody wakes me up or if I don’t put my regular three alarms, I can still sleep like a fourteen year old full of raging hormones. This would be a good time to mention that I have checked my vitamins, changed my diet, and so on. So, sometimes, being more than averagely spaniardized, I take a nap. A good old siesta.

And I fall asleep within minutes. I sleep deeply and heavily and I struggle with getting up. When you remove the pressure of going to bed at night, the thought of the consequences of failing, I’m a sleeping machine. More than I would like even, I tend to think most people live years longer than me, counting only waking hours.

When you have or have had insomnia, the bed is your enemy. No matter how comfy it is, no matter how expensive your silky bedsheets are, your bed is a monster, and it tortures you and gives you the feeling of performing an impossible task. You go on stage in front of a million people with an instrument you have never played before. You know you will fail and you know that it will make you desperate on surviving it and that it will ruin your day. Tomorrow too, probably even the next one.

My body becomes alert. If I go through every part of it, I can feel how my mouth is twitched in a grim, how my forehead is wrinkled and my fists closed. When I go through each one of them, they have twitched again as soon as I reach the starting point. The feeling of lying down doesn’t feel relaxing anymore, instead, it feels like rays of lightning inside my body are making me want to change position, only to change again and again.

I sleep on the bus. On the train, on the tram, and on the subway, even on cheap Ryanair flights with absolutely no space for my way longer than average body. In fact, I may relax so deeply that I start drooling on the shoulder of my neighbor. Most of the time it’s my husband’s, but not always.

So I have started imagining my Zs as evil little bastards that for some reason despise my bedroom, and live to mess me up. They make up for it by showing up at absolutely any other opportunity. In class. When I read. And don’t even get me started on mornings. It’s like they return after a hard night out partying, only to have invited a hundred more of them to an afterparty above my head. They’re physically holding me down. Tired is just not descriptive enough. I feel sick. I feel depressed. I feel like I’m dying. And the world is just not made for my kind of folks.

On the bright side, my asshole Zs make me sleep very lightly when I actually do sleep, which results in a number of vivid and complex dreams every single night. I remember them in detail, and I very much enjoy having my slightly overly developed imagination go wild, bringing me new stories every time I beat my enemy and actually drift off. It is indeed a useless and energy-consuming (oh, the irony) kind of sleep, but it is definitely interesting. Being a creative person, I often find them inspiring, and I try to write them all down.

I have of course found several tricks to beat my Zs. For some reason, these things seem to keep them where they should be for long enough to let me relax;

• Meditation apps, – but not all of them, and if I listen to the good ones too long, they stop being Z magnets

• The music from the original Blade Runner movie, – mostly successful, but the same goes here, – do not listen to it every night! If you learn every musical gesture by heart, the Zs will leave

• Counting, – not sheep, but breaths. Listening to one’s own breath can be very soothing and it’s difficult to get higher than about five hundred before you a) fall asleep, or b) get desperate and go nuts

• Staring at the inside of your eyelids, – this tends to work, but beware! Doing this for too long can make you see some weird and potentially scary LSD-like shit that might wake you up and leave you even more nervous and tense. This could definitely be something that just happens to me, I might be insane or possessed or something, but there is a chance I am not alone, right? Just say yes.

So, those were my tricks. Do them stealthily, so the Zs don’t realize that you’re putting them in a cage. Seriously, whistle unsuspiciously or something. Don’t underestimate them. They’re mean. At least mine are.

Ok, time for bed. Good night. Or, enjoy never getting those wounds that paralyzed people that lay still for too long get. While getting to know every little detail of your ceiling, accompanied by the snoring beast beside you. Every insomnia victim has an anti-insomnia sidekick.

Unfortunately, I’m the main character in this story.