haLLo
Jeg skriver ting; mest essays og noveller. Av og til på norsk, av og til på engelsk, aldri på fransk.
Du kan lese noe av det ved å scrolle nedover denne siden.
Og forresten, jeg heter Andrea Havre.
Hvis du vil fortelle meg noe, finner du meg på havreaa@gmail.com
(ja, den ekstra a-en er med vilje – dessverre har noen andrea havrea og det svir i hjerteroten min)
Essay
DON’T LOOK AT THE TRUCK
I few days ago, maybe a couple of weeks—I don’t have good concept of time—I read (or heard?) about not having a plan B. How if you have a plan B you have already set yourself up to the possibility that you will fail plan A, which is what you really want to do. And it stuck with me.
You see, when I was learning to ride a car before taking my drivers license, I was driving with my instructor, who was one of the most relaxed people I think I have ever met. He was so chill, when I was anything but. And one day I was driving on the main road, and I was uttering my fear of passing large trucks. They felt so huge, and gave me the impression of having the smallest car, not enough space to drive my little car and very much thinking about how, if we crashed, the truck would drive right over me and I would become a flat human pancake. If you’ve ever driven a car on a main road, you probably know the feeling. However, my driving instructor being the chillest guy ever, said to me: “Andrea, if you don’t want to hit the truck, don’t look at the truck—look at the road. Always look at where you’re going, because you will automatically drive the direction you are looking”. And while he did not at all mean this as a metaphor, it always stuck with me; both when I am driving a car—which I have been successfully doing for eight years without hitting any trucks—but also as a metaphor in life. Looking where you’re not going will throw you off your track.
So when I learned about how not having a plan B, I thought about this metaphor. Because having a plan B, is like looking the wrong way, even for a second, and it’s gonna make you stagger. And if you stagger, you either won’t hit any of your marks, you hit the truck or you fall with your face (or ass) first.
While I’m writing this, I realise how many metaphors there is saying exactly this. “Keep your eyes on the price” for an example. It really does say the same, doesn’t it? But still, it really never resonated with me. I have never heard that expression and got any feeling of let’s fucking go—anything is possible. Yet, this kind of made up metaphor about looking at the road and not at the truck, looking where your going because you will automatically go that way—it gives me that feeling of opportunity. Capability. Prospect.
When I quit my job to do my own thing, I never consciously thought about not having another plan. I never wrote it down or told anyone. I probably said some version of “I’ll just have to get another job, then”, but I never really made myself any plan B. An escape plan. The get-another-job-plan is more of a thats-what-people-do-thing, than it is me planning it. I don’t think I ever doubted it would work. That I would find a way to live my life the way I wanted to live it. Obviously I’m damn lucky being born in one of the worlds richest countries, with health care and gay rights—but I have never, ever wanted to live my life in the 9-5-kinda way that is the norm. I never felt like a traditional person. So when I actually got the chance of making my own way, the thought of what if it fails never really entered my mind. And still, a year later, even though I haven’t in any way made myself rich or famous or anything like that, I reflect, probably even more than a year ago, about my life in the future with the money and the freedom. What I want to do, when I’m actually able to do mostly anything. And by thinking about it every day, I also never look in the wrong direction. I haven’t once looked for other, conventional jobs or thought about giving up. The thoughts of should I do anything different, what’s gonna be my main offer, how can I do business better, how can I earn more money—these things I think about mostly everyday. But they never move in the direction of quitting. Because I’m not going that way, so why look in that direction?
Now, this sounds nice and all, right? But there is one other factor, and it’s important as hell. In the year or so I’ve been doing my own shit, I’ve surrounded myself only with people who believe I can make it. Or mostly that is, I’ll say 99 prosent, because I really cannot choose every person I talk to in life. But the folks I have closest to me, the ones I actually talk to most days, those people never questioned anything. And for me it’s not that they believe that I am able to run a business and earn the money—its’s the general belief that it is possible to live a different way. The openness to the fact that working nine to five at an office isn’t what everyone wants. And I think we all know that a lot of the people who don’t believe it’s possible to do anything else don’t necessarily want to spend their life in an office either, they just don’t know how to do anything different. Or they are small minded human beings who don’t want anyone else to do what they really want—and those people I don’t care about for a second anymore. You see, I’ve had people close to me that didn’t do anything but limit me. And without those people I do have a lot less friends, but a lot more belief in myself and a lot more energy to put into the things I wanna do. So it’s not really a loss.
Who you surround yourself with is important for your ability to keep your gaze straight ahead at where you want to go. And if the people you have close to you make you look towards the truck, maybe you don’t need them—because it takes a lot of energy to keep turning your gaze in the right direction again and again. And it takes a lot of courage to choose plan A as the only plan there is, but it is the only plan there is. Because it’s the plan you want. And you can change plan A how many times you want, but you never need a plan B. Plan B is the truck, not because it is going to make you a into a human pancake, but because it is a distraction from plan A.
Essay
OM DISKRÉ DISKRIMINERING
Publisert i ALTSÅ januar 2024
Det er nesten blitt en rutine, tenke på å ytre meg om det jeg kaller diskré diskriminering, men ikke gjøre det. I hodet mitt gjør jeg det. Men ikke høyt (ikke til noen andre enn samboeren og mamma, naturligvis – de vet godt hvem jeg er). Jeg er skribent. Tekstforfatter. Historieforteller. Og jeg var, i større grad enn jeg er, grammatikknerd. En sånn som pirker på feil bøying, feil bruk av ord, dumme formuleringer. Sier du gamlest, svarer jeg eldst. Sier du diagnosert, sier jeg diagnostisert.
Men det er sjeldnere og sjeldnere jeg sier det høyt; inni meg er nesten min egen hjerne lei. Jeg har bitt meg i tungen så mange ganger at om metaforen var virkelighet, ville tungen min vært kortere. Kanskje har det en effekt å pirke; kanskje ender en opp med ingen venner. At jeg sjeldnere kommenterer utenfor mitt eget hodet har flere grunner. Én av dem er viten om at jeg blir «en sånn en». Jeg kan føle de himlende øynene på andre siden av skjermen.
En grå dag i november skrev Bergensavisen at en kvinnelig meteorolog kvitret prognosen for dagene fremover. Været så ut til å bli fint, og jeg kan bare anta at ordet «kvitre» ble brukt for å forklare en form for glede i stemmen til meteorologen. Når fuglene kvitrer synger de. Når meteorologene kvitrer blir været godt. Men kvitrer en mannlig meteorolog, eller er det bare de kvinnelige? Mennene, de galer? I september publiserte Aftenposten et portrett med DNB-sjefen, Kjerstin Braathen. Saken starter med en beskrivelse av hvor høye hælene hennes er og hvilken farge de har. Hvilken farge er det Stoltenberg har på skoene igjen?
Diskré diskriminering, diskriminering vi omtrent ikke legger merke til, diskriminering vi gjerne ser, men ikke sier noe om fordi det «var så lite». Helene Uri kan liste opp og ned og i mente om hvordan kvinner og menn omtales ulikt, presenteres og representeres ulikt. Fordi hun er obs på det når hun leser, ser hun alle de hverdagslige forskjellene; den diskré diskrimineringen. De små tingene ser jeg også, dog i mindre skala enn Uri, men jeg har ikke turt å fortelle om det, vise det frem, gjøre andre oppmerksomme på dem. For da er jeg «en sånn en».
En blodfeminist som kverulerer og pirker og aldri blir fornøyd.
Diskré diskriminering, de små tingene vi ikke tør si noe om fordi det var så lite. At en kvinne blir beskrevet som kvitrende, er ikke diskriminerende nok. Hadde en kvinne blitt beskrevet som en jævla kjerring, da hadde vi sagt fra, alle sammen i kor. «Dere kan gjerne sukke og argumentere mot meg, men jeg er helt overbevist om at vi må begynne i det lille for å forstå det store.», sa Kerstin Nettelblad til Altså. Kun ved å ta tak i de små, uheldige formuleringene, kan vi skape et likestilt språk; kun ved et likestilt språk kan vi si at vi har likestilling.
Når journalistene skriver at meteorologen kvitrer, om de rosa hælene til DNB-sjefen, om «sjåføren og den kvinnelige sjåføren», «legen og den kvinnelige legen», tror jeg ikke det er bevisst. Jeg tror ikke de mener å diskriminere. Jeg tror ikke de bevisst tenker at å fokusere på at hælene til DNB-sjefen er ti centimeter høye, er en språklig manipulering som påvirker leserens syn. Jeg tror ikke de mener at den kvinnelige meteorologen er mer som en fugl enn en mannlig er. Jeg tror ikke de bevisst reflekterer over at en sjåfør naturligvis er mann og derfor må den kvinnelige sjåføren spesifiseres som kvinne. Jeg tror det er holdninger i samfunnet som vi er så vant med, at vi ikke legger merke til dem. Derfor må noen gjøre oss oppmerksomme på dem. Minne oss på at en lege like gjerne kan være kvinne som mann og at verken menn eller kvinner kvitrer – det er det fugler som gjør.
Å bite seg i tungen når venner mimrer tilbake til de «gamleste minnene de har» er kanskje like greit. Men det er på tide å motsi trangen til ikke å bli «en sånn en» når det gjelder diskré diskriminering. Om «en sånn en» er en person som bidrar i kampen for et likestilt språk, så er det meg en ære å være en sånn en. For har vi ikke likestilling i språket, da har vi ikke likestilling.
Essay
TENKTE DU PÅ DET, DA?
Da du bråvåknet den morgenen, femten minutter senere enn planlagt, til årets første snø og viten om at trafikken trolig sto i stampe, fordi det gjør den alltid første dagen snøen faller — tenkte du på det da?
Da du endelig satt i bilen på vei til kontoret, i den forventede køen, med varmen og morgenradioen på, etter å ha levert barnet ditt i barnehagen med kun minimal mengde grining — tenkte du på det da?
Da du kom til kontoret og kunne se en full kanne med nytraktet kaffe, og hørte kollega etter kollega si «god morgen», med ulik grad av positivitet og glede (noen satt jo i samme bilkø som deg, mens andre gikk rett inn på bybanen) — tenkte du på det da?
Da kollegaen på pulten vedsiden av inviterte deg med til kantinen for å spise overpriset, varm lunsj — tenkte du på det da?
Da du gikk inn i barnehagen og så barnet ditt i rød kjeledress og matchende votter lyse opp ved synet av deg, og ordet «mamma» runget fra rutsjebanen — tenkte du på det da?
Da dere var på butikken for å handle middag, og barnet ville ha alt fra seigemenn til rosenkål, og du igjen og igjen måtte svare nei til frossenpizza til middag, til tross for at ingenting fristet mer enn å slippe å lage middag — tenkte du på det da?
Da du pakket barnet ditt godt inn i en tykk dyne med supermann-sengetøy, leste et eventyr og kysset den myke, varme pannen god natt — tenkte du på det da?
Da du etter hundre «mammaa, jeg sover ikke!» endelig kunne gå ut av rommet og legge deg til rette i sofaen, med beina ved siden av samboerens bein, før du trykket «play» på serien du hadde gledet deg til siden du våknet om morgenen — tenkte du på det da?
Da du la deg, to timer etter du i følge deg selv «burde», i en varm seng, ved siden av personen du elsker, i et trygt land hvor det som, om noe, forstyrrer nattesøvnen din er barnet ditt som har mareritt og ikke barnet ditt som lever i et mareritt — tenkte du på det da?
Tenkte du på hvor heldig du er?
Short story
THE ELEVATOR PITCH
“Hold the elevator!!”, he yelled, a lot louder than he intended. ”Uhm, please”, he added awkward, embarrassed that he had sounded like some kind of military dude with way too high thoughts about himself.
As he got to the elevator, he saw a foot in between the doors, and from the simple, black leather boot, his eyes followed the leg, passed the ancle, the knee, the thigh and then he realised what he was doing and forced his eyes to go straight to the face of this person. A woman looked at him. She was smiling, more than he would have expected, but she also had this kind of face that he didn’t have any doubts that this woman smiled a lot. Probably to everyone she met.
“Thank you so much”, he said—not waiting until she could answer he kept going, “I didn’t mean to shout, I am just really running late for this meeting, and I am not really my boss’ favourite person so I kind of have no room for screwing up, uhh I mean fucking up, oh fuck I’m sorry I mean I really shouldn’t be late for this meeting”. He was out of breath and everything he just said was true, but the nice woman holding the elevator did not need to know any of it. He put his palm to his forehead, sighing loud from his own socially awkwardness. Why did he always do this?
When he dared to look back up, he looked straight into this woman’s eyes, and she had the nicest eyes behind the non-framed glasses. She was probably some years older than him, maybe in her late fourties, she looked confident in a non-arrogant way. When she smiled, which she seemed to do all the time, her eyes were friendly, in her cheeks a small dimple appeared on each side and her plump, dark red lips did not let one single one of her teeth slip out. He had a habit of not really looking at people, not in the elevator, not in meetings, not anywhere he didn’t have to. His mother had always said “look at me when I speak to you!”, usually mad at him for avoiding eye contact. But this woman, he just couldn’t stop looking at her. Not in a oh-my-god-she-is-so-hot-kinda way, but she just had something to her whole person. Like he didn’t want to take her to bed, he wanted to take her to dinner and listen to her talk for hours even though he had not yet even heard her voice. Her outfit both chill, beautiful and professional at the same time, a combination he couldn’t remember anyone ever pulling off. Her dark, low rise loose jeans, dark red shirt with only the two upper buttons closed, some kind of top inside, tight and black, showing her body in a non-revealing way. Her leather jacket hanging over her shoulders like they just happened to fall over her when she left the house. She was pretty, hot and looked like the most intelligent woman he had ever seen—all at the same time.
After a few seconds, that felt like hours, where she just looked at him and smiled with both her eyes and mouth, she said “no problem, I am in no rush”. Her whole presence was controlled and relaxed, she was the perfect combination of cool and kind.
Just as he finished the thought, the elevator started shaking, then a loud bang and they both knew what had happened. They were stuck.
“Oh, fuck”. The words just slipped out of him. This happened all the time, but this time he really did not have the time for it to happen. He looked at her with an apologetic face. She smiled, again, but this time she seemed different. Nervous. He looked away, not wanting to bother her, but it was like his face didn’t want to be facing anything but her. The elevator had no mirror, it was just a brown box. Not small, but in no way large. Just a regular elevator. Her face had gotten paler, and the confidence she had just a few seconds ago had faded into something else. Fear maybe? He looked at her, on purpose this time, and heard his own voice, calmer than ever. “Are you okay?”. She looked him straight in the eyes and he realised her gaze had gotten cold. She tried to smile, but it was in no way convincing.
“I’m just not really good with small spaces”, she stuttered.
“Oh, it’s probably just a short stop, no problem”, he said.
It got quiet.
A few minutes went by, and no sign of the elevator moving. The silence was loud. He hated silence. Couldn’t bear hearing his own blood rushing through his veins. He had to say something, but in the same exact moment he opened his mouth to say something stupid about the weather, he had another thought. If he could hate the silence so much, how scared was she actually of being stuck in an elevator. He had no problem being stuck in an elevator, he had even crawled through narrow pipes when he worked as an electrician, having to take his tool belt off to be able to get back out. In other words, he could not at all relate to the fear of tight spaces. But he hated, like really hated, every social event. Whenever he had to talk to other people than his friends and family, he startet spewing out words, telling details nobody cared about or even wanted to know, his face turned red and his palms sweaty. Even when he talked about the one thing he really had knowledge on, electricity in large, public buildings, he cramped up. What if this woman had the same feelings about being stuck in a small, wooden elevator without mirrors or air for that sake, as he had when having to talk to people? Oh no, he thought to himself. What if she really has anxiety for cramped spaces and he said “NO PROBLEM”?? What ass of a guy says that??
He felt stupid. She was probably claustrophobic, and his take on it was “it’s okay”??
Now his palms got sweaty. He had to say something. She had sat down, and leaned her back and head towards the inner wall of the brown box they were stuck in. He sat down leaning to the same wall, but as far away as possible from her. Which was not really far as the box was maybe five feet wide. His head tilted slowly towards her, and he could see she was not okay. Her hands were shaky and she had her eyes like kind of closed, but still open. What could he possible say to make it better?
He cleared his throat, which obviously made a lot more sound than he anticipated. He rolled his eyes and shook his head annoyed of his own lack of being normal. Then without thinking he opened his mouth and out came the most stupid words he had ever uttered.
”You’re really not good with small spaces, huh?”
Oh my god, what the fuck was that???
She opened her eyes a bit more and turned her head towards the left so he could se her confused and probably very annoyed face. She turned back, pulled her legs towards her, put her hands around the knees and leaning forward with her head to the kneecaps.
He put his stupid face in to his stupid palms. Everything was sweaty.
The next minutes felt like days. They both sat there, with their gaze turned down, wallowing in their own anxiety. As the elevator light turned back on, and they could feel it moving again, they both got up. It still took a few second before it stopped—on her floor. As she was about to exit the elevator she turned to him, held the door and with a glimpse in her eye she said
“you’re really not good with social interaction, huh?”
And then she left and the doors closed. She was gone.
Essay
HVIS JEG STYRTE BERGEN FOR ÉN DAG
Vinner av BT’s skrivekonkurranse 2024.
Hva jeg ville gjort om jeg fikk bestemme i én dag?
Aller først ville jeg satt alle planer, drømmer, problemer, utfordringer og uenigheter på pause.
Bybane til Åsane? Pause.
Synker bryggen (fortsatt)? Pause.
Ølallmenning eller vanlig almenning? Pause.
Bergen ut av Norge? P-a-u-s-e.
Så, når alle (alle!) saker er på pause – da ville jeg bedt veldig veldig fint om å få låne kinoene i sentrum. Begge to. Jeg trenger begge to.
Jeg ville bedt om Disneyfilmer i den største salen. De gode gamle Disneyfilmene. Og kanskje et par av de nye, definitivt Hercules – definitivt ikke Løvenes konge (nydelig film, men syv hakk for trist). Så kanskje Harry Potter i én sal? Sikkert noen romantiske komedier i én, definitivt et par gode action-komedier, som får selv den mest humorløse til å le så tårene renner.
Det eneste filmene må ha til felles er at de ikke er triste. At de kan få den som ser på til å le, gråte rørte tårer og smile helt inn i hjertet. Med tenner, smilehull og -rynker.
I lobbyen (foajeen?) skulle det være mat. Varm mat, kanskje både pizza og suppe? Kanskje til og med lapskaus? (haha, nei.) Kanskje taco ville vært best? Enkelt å lage mye av, alle får velge det de liker (og tåler) – og så er det jo ingen som ikke liker taco??
Det spiller egentlig lite rolle (så lenge det ikke er lapskaus). Maten skal fylle magen til den som spiser, og fylle kroppen med varme.
Kioskene skulle være åpne, fylte og gratis. Det skulle bugne med popcorn, smågodt og sjokolade.
Og drikke, så klart. Varm kaffe, te og sjokolade, brus i alle farger og smaker – og rent, kaldt vann.
Og det skulle være gratis, nevnte jeg det? Gratis.
I noen av salene skulle det være tepper og puter. Kanskje til og med i alle. Varme tepper en kan tulle seg inn i, og myke puter til å hvile nakken på. Å sovne til filmene skulle være lov – kanskje til og med oppfordret. Setene er myke og gode, med gode muligheter for å finne den ene stillingen hvor kroppen synker automatisk inn i søvn. Til og med snorking skulle være lov (men det går jo grenser…).
Og i minst én sal skulle hele gulvet være dekket av madrasser, dyner og puter. Som en stor overnatting, slik vi husker fra vi var små. Minus at det skulle være stille. Musestille. Stillere enn i en konferansesal, når foredragsholder stiller sitt siste spørsmål: “er det noen som har noen spørsmål?”. Her skulle det være mulig å sove dypere søvn enn man trodde var mulig.
Inn i denne herligheten av et fornøyelsespark-område, ville jeg invitert alle de som ikke har et hjem.
Alle som vet, av erfaring, hvordan brostein fungerer som hodepute og madrass.
Alle som kjenner følelsen av en rumlende, verkende, tom mage – og vet at neste måltid kan være lenge til. Alle som ikke kan huske sist de sov en hel natt, eller sist de sov i en ordentlig seng.
Alle barn som har et ustabilt liv. Alle barn som ikke har sett en eneste Disneyfilm fordi de må passe småsøsken, gjøre husarbeid eller fordi de rett og slett ikke har TV. Alle barn som fryser. Alle barn som er sultne.
Alle mennesker som for hver dag som går blir litt og litt mindre sikker på om livet er noe for dem.
Alle mennesker som trenger én dag og én natt inne i varmen, med fulle mager.
Legge til rette for at de skal få høre latter og ikke gråt.
Gi de én dag og én natt hvor de føler seg trygg. Hvor de er trygge.
Det ville jeg gjort om jeg fikk bestemme i kun én dag.
Det er ikke en langsiktig løsning på noe som helst.
Å kalle det en løsning er i seg selv å dra strikken langt.
Men så fikk jeg jo tross alt bare én dag.
Og det jeg kan gjøre på én dag, er å skape noen timer trygghet for et annet menneske.
En sånn trygghet jeg tar for gitt hver eneste dag.
Og det er, for meg, bedre enn å ta en endelig beslutning på bybane-spørsmålet.
Short story
THE PRINTER
There is a reason why I always, always, always avoid having to print something. Obviously there is a climate factor, but that’s not the biggest reason (don’t tell anyone that). The biggest reason is this: there’s not one single thing in this world that makes me feel less smart, than trying to manoeuvre a printer and getting it to give me those words on paper. But this time I had to. There was just no way around it, I had to have those words on paper, to do my job (maybe I should get one of those pad-thingys that let’s you write straight on a document without printing, but then again, there is a climate factor to that too, and let me just love my pen towards paper for a few more years).
The problem is—yes, is, not was or usually are— that the printer is it’s own type of awfulness. It’s just like that one friend who says yes to everything, but backs out five minutes before you’re meeting up. You know it’s going to happen, but still you have hopes every time that she won’t. That she just shows up, or at least responds with a polite “I can’t” when you call the first time. Because all though it sucks to get rejected, it’s worse to get stood up last minute. And in the exact same way being stood up by a friend (can we even call her that, still?) hurts the long lost self esteem, being fooled by the printer hurts the part of the brain where you actually feel there is some hard working cells. The part where you feel quite capable. I think it’s referred to as intelligence?
And you know, I did say is, so there should be absolutely no surprise that this time was no exception. I said, both to myself and to the black box supposed to be fast and reliable, that today this is going to be no problem, no stress, just a woman printing out some papers. This time it even started out fine, the box I’ve named Jack (Jacks are always unreliable) even told me he was connected to WiFi, the right WiFi, and ready to go do his job so that I could go do mine. But then, when we were almost there, he goes … nothing. And there’s that feeling, that feeling you get when that friend texts you “something came up, gotta reschedule”.
So I did what anyone raised in that period where technology was existing, but no one had any idea how to use it would do. I turned it off. And then on again, wondering if this technique would work with humans. Put them in just a tiny coma, to kinda restart everything, maybe they would wake up a little bit more cheerful. Maybe even a bit more polite (you know, the ability to not say yes, when you mean no, for an example). It worked with Jack. At least I thought so, but as that one friend, he loves tricking me into believing he’s changed. Approximately five seconds after we were back on track, he went “there is something wrong” and I went “okay, what” and he went “…” and I went “hello? you’re the one there’s something wrong with, and you don’t even know what it is??”. I know, it was a bit rude, but then again, he deserved it. After four more tries, disconnecting, connecting, smiling, crying, trying, failing, restarting, laughing, dying—I gave up, sat my ass down and started writing. By hand. On paper. Two pages on the laptop, how long could it take? Spoiler: two pages on a computer is a lot more when you write by hand. And if you can believe it, Jack left me hanging just until I had one paragraph left, no feeling in my shoulder, a new chronic posture and this distinctive pain in my right wrist, and then, like he just got out of coma, he was back. Happier than ever. Giving me both pages as if nothing happened. Just like that friend who always cancels, and then suddenly is at your door with wine and food, going “thought you might wanna watch a movie”, as if you have no life and couldn’t possibly have other plans on a Saturday night, but then again lying on the floor with your cat, listening to stories worse than yours isn’t really socially accepted as other plans, so you say yes.
And there I am. With the two pages Jack was handing me, and the five with my sloppy handwriting on the desk (not very climate friendly), trying to convince myself to use the once handwritten, because it’s five sheets of paper, should be used for something. I can almost hear him laughing at me, because he knows that I’ll end up using his two, instead of my five in the end. Of course I will, they’re better.
Essay
HVORDAN JEG MISTET TO DELER AV IDENTITETEN MIN PÅ ETT ÅR
I året som gikk hadde jeg bare sluttet med ting. Én etter en hadde jeg forlatt gamle vaner.
I mars var det snusboksen; det var med vilje. Ikke fordi jeg hadde lyst, absolutt ikke. Jeg trivdes godt som en snuser. Det var som en del av identiteten min, og jeg hadde aldri noe problem med det, med unntak av noen korte øyeblikk hvor jeg skulle ønske jeg var en sånn lululemon tights & ingefærshot-kvinne. Veldig korte øyeblikk. Og snusen var uansett ikke den største hindringen mellom meg og den Instagramvennlige-personligheten.
Men jeg måtte slutte. Jeg trengte pengene til andre ting. Ting jeg hadde mer lyst til. Reise. Sko. Bukser. Strøm. Husleie. Jeg hadde ingen god nok unnskyldning for å bruke pengene på snus. Ikke god nok til å overtale meg selv.
Å droppe snusen var egentlig enkelt. Og det var jo litt irriterende. Det skulle jo ikke være enkelt. Joda, var jeg sur. Jeg var provosert, irritert og forbanna om hverandre i 36 timer i strekk, hvor hvert eneste menneske i ti mils omkrets sannsynligvis heller ville fått influensa, øyebetennelse og urinveisinfeksjon på samme tid, enn å ta sjansen på å spørre meg om noe.
Men så gikk det over. Og min største sorg var at jeg ikke lenger var en snuser. Jeg var en som hadde sluttet å snuse. En personlighetsendring som plasserte meg ekstremt mye nærmere en personlighet jeg ikke ville ha. Jeg var en ikke-snuser. Måtte jeg begynne å drikke pumkin spice latte og gå med uggs i bergensk høljeregn da?
Noen uker eller kanskje måneder senere var det Pepsi Max. Den sluttet bare å smake godt. Det var ingen intensjon om å slutte. Det var ikke engang et ønske om å slutte. Selvsagt hadde tanken vært der, og det var ingen hellig overbevisning om at Pepsi Max var bra for kroppen. At sort kullsyredrikk var veien til å bli 100 år. Men, jeg hadde jo sluttet med snusen. Så da måtte jeg få ha brusen min i fred.
Så gikk det noen dager, uker, hvor jeg ikke drakk pepsi. Ubevisst, selvsagt. Unnskyldningen var at jeg ikke gadd bære en seks- eller åttepakning opp alle trappene til leiligheten (denne 70-talls leiligheten har jo ikke akkurat heis) og å kjøpe én flaske var jo unødvendig mye dyrere.
Selv en treåring skjønte jo at det ville vært for dumt å bruke trettifem kroner på én flaske, når jeg kunne få seks for under hundre kroner. Så da drakk jeg ikke brus da, på en stund – og når dagen hvor jeg ble servert et glass kom, da var det ikke noe godt.
Det var et sjokk – og en sorg.
Som om jeg mistet ikke bare én, men to deler av identiteten min på et tidsrom av noen måneder.
Og det rareste er at jeg sluttet å snuse fordi jeg trengte pengene. Å slutte å kjøpe brus sparte meg også for mye penger. Men nå er jeg en ikke-snuser, som ikke drikker pepsi max, og heller ikke har penger.