Page 12 of The Happiness Blueprint
In my circle, relationships are valued higher than professional achievements. Proof: qualifying as a carpenter got me 57 likes on Facebook, moving in with my ex-girlfriend amassed 321. Would think in a family where only a handful have a higher education, it would be different. But the focus is consistently on companionship. Mamma has reminded me time after time that Jesus didn’t have a diploma, a fact I’ve responded to by informing her that he also wasn’t married. What he had was a partner who was possibly a prostitute, according to some sources—would she like me to follow in his footsteps?Oh, Alex(insert typical motherly voice with undertones of exhausted torment yet never-wavering hope).
Guess we just don’t enjoy being alone very much.
Sometimes I think, when we were small, Mamma set herself a goal of marrying off her sons much in the same manner that I’m goal-setting now. New event: marry sons off wearing floral dress and hat, task status half-completed.
Whatever makes a good son I’m not sure I’m it. Feel I should be doing more. Treat them to what they deserve. A weekend trip. A dinner at the Triangle with views across the sound, similar to the ones in the apartment that’s now empty and hollow. Think perhaps my parents can hold on because they have me, they have one reason to go on, and if I could be my best self, their reason would be stronger.
Shove a whole piece of cake into my mouth.Manners, Alex, Mamma says with her eyes. I think she regrets not giving me a long full name, the type you use sternly only when a child is misbehaving, but all she can do now is add anOh:Oh, Alex.In our guest bathroom there is a picture of His Majesty the King Carl Gustaf of Sweden and Her Royal Highness the Queen Silvia of Sweden. My parents are royalists so when they had children, the theme was a given. Wish I could say I was named after Alexander the Great but it’s Princess Alexandra of Denmark, most famous for her stylish hats and matching coats.
Mamma talks again.
“I wanted your thoughts on this.” The torment over my life choices seems to end, at least momentarily. My mother produces a clip from the local newspaper. “They are putting up a giant pink unicorn statue on Gustav Adolf Square ahead of this year’s Pride, and there is an opportunity to sponsor it and add a name inscription. I thought we could do it in Calle’s memory...”
I laugh out loud at the thought of Calle’s face at the mere mention of a larger-than-life pink unicorn. Calle was a successful marketing professional, very good at adult stuff as opposed to yours truly, not a six-year-old girl. The thing about my parents is that they are good people. In fact, they are so full of love and goodness that there isn’t always space left for insight, reflection or common sense.
“I will discuss it with Dan.” At least it will put a rare smile on his face. And Mamma seems to be doing better.
Fucking throbbing headache when I’m finally about to leave an hour later. But here’s the thing: a headache is a low price to pay for family, folks that love you. Consistent people in your life you cut some slack. No problem. Just having people is a privilege. I try hard to remember that as my dad says in the doorway, “Never thought a child of mine would beunemployed.”
“Job-searching. After sick leave,” I offer as clarification. Knowing very well nothing in that statement is clear to him. Pappa lost a son on a Friday and went to work on a Monday. Because that’s what you do. You work and work and tell yourself you have a purpose. The funeral was on a Tuesday and on the Wednesday he had built a new garden shed. Calle’s personal belongings arrived on a Thursday, and on the Friday a new recycling waste station had appeared at the end of the road, to the delight of the neighborhood. While Pappa built shit, Mamma baked. Buns and rolls and shortbread cookies until her hands were rough and worked like an early-century laundry woman’s. When the freezer couldn’t hold any more, she started donating to local charities. What else was there to do? Baking still made sense, building things still made sense, even when life no longer did.
Pappa grips onto the railings he built for them to hold on to as they walk out of the house and into the world and peers at me.
“Your legs working? Your arms? Then, you’re fit enough to work.”
“Not that fucking easy, Pappa. Can’t you just leave it for once? Go hammer some more planks instead ofme. Shit.”
“Hey,” Mamma steps in.
“Sorry. Shish kebab.” Mamma never allowed us to sayshitso we covered up by sayingshish kebab. Shit kebab. In the same mannerfuckbecomesfalafel. Neighbors must have thought we had a thing for Lebanese food with all the shish and falafel shouts coming from our house.
“That’s my boy.” (Mamma)
Get to the gate when I her hear voice again.
“Wait, take some cinnamon rolls home. I have bags of them!”
At least I can tick off a calendar entry.
KLARA
How do I survive the first day of work?
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
The next morning Dad insists on taking the bus to the hospital but agrees to let me pick him up in the afternoon. He gets out of the car at the bus stop, leaving a trail of faint aftershave behind. He only wears it when he is going out to an important destination, kind of like me and my lace going-out underwear or black work socks (black meansbusiness). For every day and work he wears no fragrance other than the scent he picks up from wood, ceramic and nature.
In the side mirror I watch the yellow regional bus approach and stop to collect him, its lights like eyes peering through the dawn, then I drive off. I stay at a speed of ten percent below the limit because ten percent is a permissible number. Accepted above word count on university essays and also the rate of tips for service staff which makes itdecent. I creep at 29.8 mph, then 17 mph, until I’m back where I started and ready to open up the home office.
I told Dad I would be fine without his introduction, but standing at the office entry, I feel less than sure. I have spent the past half an hour reorganizing and decluttering the space and adding my own touch. I don’t mind items that are known to me, but a room full of new items is a recipe for disaster. I end up staring at them and memorizing them to the point where I forget what I was supposed to work on. In primary school the teacher swiveled my chair around so that I faced the wall.The seasons-of-the-year poster is too interesting. I’m still distracted,I piped up when my worksheet was once again handed in half-completed.Klara, if you looked at the desk rather than at the walls, you would be fine. We cannot strip the walls for you. One poster you can deal with.
I take one last look at myself in the hallway mirror, most likely an unwanted item from a demolition job. What other reason would there be to put a mirror up for employees in worn work wear and boots other than that it was free?
I tie my hair into an even tighter bun; its endless occupation is trying to break free from the constraint of elastic, as if it’s allergic. If it had a voice, my hair would be an anti-elastic campaigner with a car sticker and a Texan accent. I stay standing in front of my reflection. I have a beauty that de-escalates. It starts off well with a symmetrical, well-proportioned face, large eyes and full lips, moving on to arms, perfectly useful ones, freckled and slim, a large but firm bust that stays where it’s asked to, a soft tummy full of lines and red dots, the ones that would make a medical examiner concludetype 1 diabetes. I am definitely in the so-called pear-shape category. Not that I care; comparing women to fruit is just rude. My legs are in working order but nothing to look at, short in relation to my torso. Then it ends with a low: my feet, large and bony, remind me of odd, bumpy root vegetables brought in from the harvest. I would like to hope people eye me up from top to bottom, like that they get my good bits first because first impressions are what last.
Once I saw someone write the theme song to their life in their Tinder profile and wanted to do the same, but the only thing I could think of wasHead, shoulders, knees and toes.Alice says the song has to sum up ourexperience, not our physicalappearance, and that the theme song toherlife is the shitty flute version of “My Heart Will Go On,” because it’s an emotional train wreck that just gets progressively more frantic as it goes on.
The look I get from Mateusz when he enters the lot is many things, but not what my dad said it would be—adoring. Unless perhaps you meanadoringas in a steak you’re just about to sink your teeth into.
