Page 36 of The Happiness Blueprint
Reply (Alex): Want to sit this one out?
Reply (Klara): Only drank Margaritas at a rate of 1.3 an hour. Fresh as a daisy washed in Lenor. See you there
Have a voice mail from Dr. Hadid. Apparently she’d like to see a next of kin. My support system. I go through my people mentally. Mamma, Pappa, Dan and Paul make the top. The thought of my parents in a closed room talking about feelings sends shivers down my spine. Dan—have tortured the guy enough with my problems. He needs space to heal as well. Which leaves me with Paul. Reluctantly pick up the phone.
“You know how you love me so much and I picked up the slack for you on numerous times, referring to Barcelona trip 2015 and one Saturday night in Gothenburg more recently? Time to repay. I need you to come to therapy with me. My appointment is in two weeks.”
“You’re kidding. You’re bringing me to couple’s therapy?”
“Your words, not mine. Listen, it will be an hour of discussing how you can be the good friend you already are and give your versions of events on New Alex and Old Alex. Then we can grab a beer.”
“Fine. You had me at beer. And Old Alex. Kind of want that guy back.” Enter it in the calendar:
• NEW EVENT:Couple’s therapy
Have a notification straightaway. The event has a new note.
Reply (Klara): Did you want the afternoon off for this?
Oh, fuck. Have now messed up and accidentally shared private notes.
Reply (Alex): Not in couple’s therapy. Can explain.
Reply (Klara): Sure. Nothing wrong with it, don’t feel embarrassed.
Reply (Alex): No—really.
Reply (Klara): I’ve noted you as off those hours. You’re welcome.
Reply (Alex): Thanks. Although not in couple’s therapy...
KLARA
Tom Vidén...
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
Shuffling things around so Alex could go to his therapy session was easy; we still don’t have enough work. I try to picture it. Would they hold hands? Sit a yard apart on the sofa? Did my parents go to therapy? Is that what happened right before they divorced? I shake the thought away. Clearly he’s embarrassed and doesn’t want me to bring it up, let alone think about it. I turn up the music. I need a distraction, can’t spend all morning thinking about couples and their need for therapy.
The ICA Maxi has a huge parking, which, now that I drive a van, is why I shop there. I can’t eat any more eggs on toast or Fred’s Grill hybrid cuisine. I tried the next village from us but was met by a similar establishment: Brown’s Pizza and Indian Food. If I am to diverge from my mealtime habits, the reason has to be good enough. I feel like opening a takeaway from Brown’s would turn into an unpleasant surprise that I can do without.
I dump my groceries on the conveyor belt like a load of dry laundry.Why is everyone looking at me?I lick my lip as a first step, although it was ages since I last ate, and there can’t really be anything there. I touch my backside, pants in place, no huge, glaring hole. The cashier is also eyeing me up and down now. I haven’tjustbought white pasta and chocolate bars—there is a pack of quinoa and salmon fillets too! It comes to me suddenly.My food items are piled up as if I’m attempting a re-creation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
If you ever find yourself in a Swedish supermarket, there are two things you need to know. The food is ridiculously expensive, just get over it and buy what you can. Secondly, youmustorder the items on the band with the barcode toward you. This is a staple in Swedish politeness. The Swedes don’t go around pardoning and excusing themselves, but they do show respect to the cashier. Fail to do this and the cashier as well as the full line behind you will consider you bad news. In Sweden we love queues, so much so that even the groceries need to form one.
I try to reorder my items as swiftly as possibly, hoping that my eyes convey a look ofI’m sorry, meant no disrespect with the architectural grocery build. I gather my things into two paper bags, too shy to ask for the plastic ones even if I prefer them. I have to do what I can for the environment. Especially since I am now going around in a big diesel-driven van. Then I wait patiently for a receipt so I can politely refuse it.
I rush back to the car, stuffing the groceries in with paint cans and dusty work shoes. Seat belt, Eminem, heating, hand brake, accelerator.
And—crash.
Scheiße.I can hear the sound of metal crunching up like a paper being squeezed and discarded. How am I in Reverse and not Drive?Bloody gearbox.
I finally have the clarity to press my foot on the brake and stop whatever damage is happening. I want to cry desperately. This is the type of situation where I call Dad. It’s just that I’m here to be a grown-up and step in for him, as he is currently at home resting after being radiated on his groin for an hour. I push my tears back and try to calm down. Not helping. I sit for another moment before summoning the courage to get out of the van and have a look. Please don’t let it be bad. Or expensive. At least there are no Ferraris or Porsches in the village supermarket parking lot. It could be worse. I could be in a swanky Range Rover area of London.
It’s not a Chelsea tractor butitisa Mercedes. White and sparkling clean. Tears well up again. I scramble in my pockets for a piece of paper and end up pulling a sheet out of the now-retired work calendar along with a wrapped candy from my emergency supply. I lean the paper against the window of the van and begin to write my details down.
“Dear Person with Nice Shiny Car, I hope this finds you well, with a spring in your step and a smile on your face. I hope you are feeling zen this Thursday afternoon and that your day has been excellent so far because I’ve just made it suck a tiny bit. Leaving a chocolate with this note in case you, like me, are a stress eater—” I stop as the car I am about to put the note on lights up twice at the click of a fob.
