Page 45 of The Happiness Blueprint
I write to Paul.At least I don’t have to worry about my boss any longer. Turns out she is seeing someone. Relieved.
Not feeling relieved. But this is a good day, I remind myself. I pull up an old entry I wrote against my better judgment and that I can’t quite believe I’m actually completing.
• NEW TASK:Find Red Fleece Lady; Mark as: DONE
KLARA
How do I avoid hurting people’s feelings?
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
Tom has messaged me:Thanks for the other day, Clara. I would love to do it again. How about I cook for you on Saturday night? P.S. How is Miss Van Renault recovering? X Tom
It’s Klara with aK. I’m insulted. I used to write his name down in my teenage notepads, circling it with hearts and trying out my own name next to it, in case we ended up getting married. And he can’t spell mine? Maybe I’m overreacting, but my name isme,andit’s a mark of respect to spell it correctly. But then, sometimes when I’m insulted, I am toldit’s a joke.Andno offense.I can’t trust my instincts, as what I get upset over is not what others get upset over. I decide to put my feelings aside and use an objective lens. I come up with this: Tom enjoyed our night together. He wants to see me again. He makes an internal joke, which signals that we have a connection. Tom is single and within my three attempts.
I decide to accept his invitation.
I reply back to Tom as follows:I think you cooking for me on Saturday would be a good idea, considering all factors. I also have no plans and so I will see you then. X Clara.I decide to write my name to match his spelling of it to avoid hurting him. He may feel very embarrassed at having gotten it wrong if I write it withK.
“I got booked for a foot job!” Alice sings the news to me. Her limbs have graced the pages of numerous magazine pages showcasing jewelry, nail polishes and verruca plasters.
“My only body parts that are model-like,” she says. “I’ll get £75 and a free pedicure.” She quickly turns her attention to me.
“So was there any sexy time?” she asks me through the car speakers.
“What are you, a ’50s housewife?”
“I’m not the one looking for a man to open jar lids.”
“If you must know, it was what I would describe as sex-in-no-time. I’m surprised he messaged me again saying how great it was. It’s like he was in a different room than me. Like are we talking about the same sex?” I often have this happen to me. I seem to understand everything differently. I keep thinking I must be very bad at sex, if I don’t feel what others do.
I don’t mention that the fast turnaround had something to do with my mechanical pieces putting him off. When you know someone’s reply (in this case it will most certainly behe’s an immature ass) there is no point in sharing information.
“That’s the difference between men and women. Women have great or bad sex. For men, great sex is great and bad sex is still pretty good.” Alice continues with authority and a told-you-so voice. “At least you can give up the idea that he was your meet-cute rekindling with childhood sweetheart. Since there is nothing sweet about it.”
I don’t tell her that he is my only option, unless you consider the man of fifty-plus who winked at me in the screw section of the warehouse this morning. She seems to have moved on, anyway.
“There’s always Tinder.”
“A dating app is going nowhere near my phone.”
Dating apps should work for me. Technically. If someone swipes, they like you. The rules are easy enough to grasp, much easier than reading body language and facial expression while not losing eye contact.But remember not to stare as if you’re giving them an X-ray, Klara!
Number of times I have tried Tinder: seven. Number of second dates: zero. Somehow my humor gets lost whenever I ask my mouth to take care of the delivery rather than my fingers. Seven times I’ve been convinced that I’ve found the one, our banter so good I chuckled a whole night and neglected the eight hours of sleep I need to function optimally and keep a swift response time in the YourMove chat. There were times when, high on chatting, I have rushed off to meet a man, practically undressed already, just to find that we had no connection.I was not what he had expected.
In hindsight, I don’t know what I was thinking even trying. To think that I voluntarily met up with strangers, oblivious to whether they were serial killers, had nail fungus or watched soap operas is incomprehensible. All three would be reasons not to pursue a romantic relationship, and the first one is a reason I would not allow a friendship to develop either.
I’ve spent a way-too-large chunk of the evening making hot cross buns.
“Why not just buy an Easter cake?” Dad says as I start my second attempt. I blame the first one on the Swedish instant yeast. “The bakery makes delicious ones.”
“Sweden doesn’t have a designated Easter cake, does it? It’s the same chocolate cake and sweet treats smorgasbord setup as Christmas.”
“I just figure, with everything you have going on, baking is a bit ambitious.”
Yeah, well he doesn’t get this problem of being stuck between cultures. I feel like if I give up the UK traditions, I’m not worthy of my passport any longer. I can almost imagine the border control when I arrive back at Gatwick presenting a form on my return. If I behave as if I belong onThe Great British Bake Off, surely I will be welcomed back. When I finally got my British passport last year, I felt proud, like I was home. Despite a long and painful process costing me one month’s salary and almost failing the multiple-choice test on British culture.Which flower is associated with Britain?Why intricate botanical knowledge is a must for us EU-migrants is beyond me. You’d think a preference for salt-and-vinegar crisps and knowing who wonLove Islandwould be better measures of Britishness.
“Who are you trying to prove your Britishness to? Mary Berry?” Alice says when I call her for troubleshooting.
