Page 9 of The Happiness Blueprint
What is my theme song?
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
It’s 6:30 a.m., my new wake-up time. If I were in London right now, I would be lying lazily in my room and rereading archived messages to the soundtrack of a noisy kettle and Alice rummaging around. I happily glance at the time, thinking that for once I will be up and ready before Saga when my phone pings. Sometimes (actually,often) I pretend that my blood-sugar notifications are messages. That someone special is thinking of me, until I remember that the number of boyfriends I have is zero. There used to be a Mark, who also worked for YourMove, and who Alice callsbad news, although this doesn’t make sense since I rarely had any news from him during our time together and he did kindly take me out for two-and-a-half course dinners (we’d share dessert).
I have been single for six months and fourteen days. Length of celibacy is one of the things that society likes to count. There is an unspoken rule as to what requires careful precision and what doesn’t. Baby age: twenty-four months rather than two years.Do you come here often?on the other hand does not require you to saySixteen times averaging a stay of two point one four hours each visit. The same fluidity applies at the bus stop.Have you been waiting long?I usually thinkThree minutes and forty-six seconds, and whether it’s long or short depends on your own definitions, but I choose to sayNot really.
Deep down, of course, I want to find love. Doesn’t everybody? I said to Alice, “I don’t want to become an old lady who has no one to open lids of jars.” Alice responded, “Taking lids off jars is literally the only benefit you can think of when it comes to having a man? Ain’t that the truth, K!”
It turns out my messenger is Saga this time, who’s beaten me to even waking up. In fact, my whole family is alert and under the impression that this is a great time to kick off the chat.
Nonstop Notifications:
Saga: Harry woke up two whole minutes later than usual because we let him stay up two hours past bedtime. Send help. Or coffee. Or both.
Mum: Oh honey, it’s a difficult age. Have you tried the aromatherapy drops I sent you? Or sleep music? My yoga teacher swears her twins sleep through the night since she started them on a guided meditation half an hour before bedtime. She is thinking about patenting it the “med to bed” method.
Dad: Whiskey used to work fine in my days
Saga: The only time Harry is in a meditative state is when he’s watching random unboxing clips on YouTube or there is a digger on the construction site next door. Enough about me—how are you doing, Daddy?
Dad: I feel great, thanks. Klara holding up ok.
Massive exaggeration right there, as I’m still only shadowing Dad, but I’ll take it. Maybe he’s manifesting success. Considering my only professional success amounts to managing an average response time of eighteen seconds in the YourMove chat, disappointment feels imminent.
Mum: Make sure to rest plenty and eat enough greens. Stay off crisps and cheese. Got to dash, farmers market. Love you, girls x
Yes, Mum loves us. In a hugging and feeding sort of way. Our relationship growing up consisted of tight hugs, gentle strokes and our favorite dinners prepared on a rotating basis—one weekday each. Mine was Monday and macaroni, that way I could make the start of a new school week slightly better. Saga’s was Tuesday and meatballs. The remaining three nights were set: taco night, pizza night and soup night. Now physically removed, she instead mothers via pictures of sunsets, advice on well-being and by sharing her own pink-filtered life. I don’t miss her warm, motherly bosom that would swallow up her resisting children, who’d squeakcan’t breathe, Mum. Dad’s hugs are tolerable, a quick lean-in so torsos touch and a clap on the back as if I’m his dude.
The WhatsApp group generally serves me well as it’s kind of like a group support chat that covers everything from domestic and technical issues to love-life trouble. But I miss the sense ofbeing loved.If only Mum could figure out how to love me remotely, the way that I need it.
I like declarations of love in writing. A date once sent me an emoji of a contented-looking smiley with hearts floating around. When I asked if I could please have the written version, “I’m content and lovestruck with you,” there was a lot ofTyping...and then nothing. I would like the smoothness ofI love youin a message, so it’s there for me to pull up and look at whenever I want. Spoken words ultimately exist only in my head, and God knows I think a lot of silly things. Emojis can be interpreted a million ways. Writing is evidence.
When Mum left Dad for choir singer Inge, the worst thing were the jokes from ill-meaning relatives and acquaintances. “I guess he made her heart sing” and “He played the right tune.”
My parents sat us down while we were back home visiting, a rare occurrence as Saga and I got older, as if we were still small and dependent (which we may well be; does emotional dependency on parents ever stop? Asking for a friend. Obviously.).
Dad cleared his throat.
“We have some news for you.”
“Oh God, don’t tell me you are having a baby. I don’t want a sibling. Heinrich and I are planning kids. This would be—what?—our baby’s aunt or uncle?” Saga burst out.
“What she said. One sister is enough to handle. Can’t handle another one of those.” I rolled my eyes in Saga’s direction.
“I’m fifty-five, girls, and hot-flashing like a toilet on fire!” My mother has an original use of metaphors. To her they make complete sense, and so she will never learn, despite our best efforts.
“Well, you were clearly not too old to hook up with someone,” Dad said, spitting droplets of bitterness into the room.
“Wait, what’s going on?” I asked, perplexed.Hook upwasn’t a phrase I realized my dad even knew.
“Girls,” Dad said, doing his best to look us in the eyes, switching between us as if watching a tennis game. “Your Mum and I are getting a divorce. Your mother has beenseeingsomeone else.”
I looked at my parents in disbelief. Divorces happen when you’re young, not when you are adults and, in Saga’s case, hopefully soon-to-be-pregnant. Saga burst out laughing. She has disputable timing, and while I share her dark humor, I can’t force myself to physically laugh at tragedy. Any attempt to do so simply sounds like a polite cough:Huh-huh.
“How? I mean,pleasedon’t answer that. Wrong question. Why and when?” I said. Mum gathered her hands in her lap, innocently leaning forward as if she were in a therapist’s office and attempting to put all the blame on her partner.
“We met at church. My evening choir. It was friendship to start with, and then, it just became something else. In fact, it became the love of my life.” I looked over at Dad now, who was admirably composed and neutral.God, I love you, Dad.
