The times they have a-changed: This morning, I woke up to an invitation to come dance at the nearby disco. There was a time when waking up to an impromptu disco dancing pajama party would have been nothing short of cool. That would have been the kind of story I would have told my friends over and over again, as proof on my own coolness.

The impromptu disco dancing event I woke up to this morning wasn’t that, but there I was, dancing in my pajamas, like the rest of the family. Son woke us up to join him in his room, in his disco, where he was the DJ, playing music from the Harry Potter movies. Daughter did cartwheels, and Wife and I careful dance moves: she was cool, I was the dork that I am on the dance floor.

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I have a love-hate relationship with cab drivers. While behind the wheel myself, I find their driving mostly arrogant and obnoxious, yet sloppy and careless, and have recently started to add mock admiration – “Oh, sorry, you must be right since you’re the professional driver here” – to my litany of insults and honking when I try to put them in their place in traffic. Gently, but firmly.

That changes when I’m in the backseat myself. Now, I’m the kind of guy who knows exactly what Wife meant when she came back from a massage last week, glowing, and raving about the masseuse, who was “so good, and didn’t say a word.” I never chit chat with the masseur, either, and when I get my hair cut, once a year, or so, I try to fall asleep in the chair. (And succeed).

But I do like to speak with cab drivers.

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Today, I watched Ghostbusters 2.

I loved the original Ghostbusters movie when it came out. I loved the title song, and I thought Bill Murray was the funniest and coolest guy in the world.

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Despite the fact that Wife and I shared an office space, and despite the fact that we were two of only about ten people in the office, we hardly exchanged a word during those first summer months. I would see her sit behind her desk, get up every once in a while to go for a cup of tea - tea is her cup of tea - and do whatever it was that she was doing.

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The commuter train that I take from downtown Stockholm to our idyllic Sollentuna is probably about 100 meters long. Maybe a little longer, maybe 150, even, because it takes me a good minute to walk from one end to the other.

It may not sound significant, but choosing where to get on is a big decision, because it practically also seals my decision to either walk home, or take the bus.

Front of the train: bus. End of the train: walk.

It’s an 11-minute walk in the winter, and a 9-minute-walk in the summer.

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Phobophobia is a phobia which is defined as the fear of phobias, or the fear of fear, which includes intense anxiety and unrealistic and persistent fear of the somatic sensations and the feared phobia ensued. Phobophobia can also be defined as the fear of phobias or fear of developing a phobia. It differentiates itself from other kind of phobias by the fact that there is no environmental stimulus per se, but rather internal dreadful sensations similar to psychological symptoms of panic attacks.

Here’s a brain twister: The fear of fear. As if it’s not enough to be afraid of something, especially since there are a lot of phobias to be afraid of.

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I probably could have jammed myself into the subway train, had I really been obnoxious and pushy. Literally pushy. But I’m so lazy that instead of doing that, and having to stand up all the way from the arena to the train station, I decided to take the next train. I understand that I still had to stand there, outside, for another three minutes waiting for the next train, but then I’d get to sit down, I figured.

The train arrived, and sure enough, it was almost empty. I got a window seat, and continued reading my book – Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall by Kazuo Ishiguro – as the doors closed.

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I’ve never been in a fight. Not once in my life. Not as a five-year-old, not as a rowdy teenager, not even as a hockey player. I’m a lover, not a fighter – at least if those two are the only alternatives.

I can imagine that a couple of times I’ve been closer than I realized. Especially that one time when I happened to spit a guy, on other other team, of course, on his visor during a hockey game. At least he said he’d wait for me outside after the game, and that he’d beat me up.

Well, I didn’t see anybody as I ran to my car in the dark.

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When I was three, and we were visiting family friends, I would make a point of asking the host/ess where my coffee cup was. Because, apparently, I drank coffee back then. One part coffee, 52 parts milk, I suppose. At 4, I quit drinking coffee, to the point where I wouldn’t even eat coffee-flavored ice cream.

Or couldn’t because I couldn’t handle the taste.

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Driving north on Sankt Eriksgatan in Stockholm, at the intersection between the said street and Rörstrandsgatan, there’s a no-left turn sign. I see it every day, when Son and Daughter and me are driving home from school. (It's here.)

We’re always on the left lane because the right one is only for those turning right, and the traffic is always easier on the left lane anyway. I pick up the kids, on average, four times a week, but for argument’s sake, let’s just say I’m in my car, driving north at Sankt Eriksgatan and Rörstrandsgatan three times a week, sometime between 3 and 3.30. (Singing, talking, playing car games, refereeing a backseat argument, or, just quietly listening to a podcast while Son and Daughter listen to a CD).

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