So, now I’ve turned 26. I had a birthday party together with Lina.
Natalia made my hair and I wore my San Francisco dress, but to be honest, I don’t really remember what happened. Not due to alcohol, I don’t drink like that, but. Something about all the people, and being happy but at the same time feeling the need to be on top of everything, making sure that Mattias didn’t turn up the music too high or Isak open too many windows, Jocke not scaring off too many people with his extreme argumentatory exercises and people in general just having a good time. So, I guess it could be called stress-induced memory loss. But of what I do remember, I did have fun. Three smashed pots and a burned tin box can attest to the party at least not being dull.
My birthday started with mom calling and the sun shining. At school, my amazing classmates surprised me with an extensive morning break fika spread, and when I got back to the lecture hall, I found yet another sweet message on my lecture notes. (Suspect: Roweena).
Every year on my birthday, my mom used to wake me up in the morning with candles and a semla (a kind of Swedish, whipped cream filled bun). Now that she isn’t here, I decided to go get one with some members of my SRC family instead, at the fanciest bakery we could find. And it was fancy, alright, with servers dressed in white and black and chandeliers in the ceiling. Perfect birthday treat.
I then rounded off the day by going to an exhibit on Yoruba art. The Yoruba are a people in present day Nigeria, but the peak of their culture and kingdom was between the 12th and 15th centuries. Incredible copper heads of kings and queens, exhibited in an old military bunker. Amazing.
The following days, I had to write a home examination, but it was as if everything had left me. Inspiration, excitement, agency. Suddenly I didn’t see the point. I simply did not want to.
And then snow came and you know I can never concentrate when it snows. Snow feelings tingling in my body, making my thoughts lose structure and purpose. I used to sit at psychology lessons in high school, writing poems about life as a snow flake, not caring in the least about Pavlov’s dogs and the id.
So I turned in the home exam late and so poorly executed I would have felt shame hadn’t it started snowing again. I might have to redo it, but then again, sometimes the generosity of my teachers amazes me. I passed the economics exam. I might be lucky and pass this too. Or not. I find it hard to muster any kind of concern about it.
Maybe I have a 26 year crisis. Could be an interesting turn of events.
Katja Malmborg 