I was shopping with my sister the other day when suddenly I heard, "Hi Aunt Jane."
I turned and gushed. "Hi, how are you? I don't think you've ever met my sister. Celia this is . . ."
"Kira, Aunt Jane, Kira."
I kicked myself. Why didn't I think to pretend to forget my sister's name, then I wouldn't have looked so stupid.
I have never met anyone worse at remembering names than me. It is humiliating. It's not that I don't want to remember names; they just vaporize into some unexplored hole in my brain. I forget everyone's name. I even forgot my own once when I introduced my date and myself. I said "Hi, I'm Mike and this is Jane."
I taught a Sunday school class of twelve year olds and I forgot different names each week. One Sunday, after teaching for a year, my mind zeroed out. I couldn't remember anyone, including my son Garret. It wasn't the best mother, son bonding moment.
I went to Alberta, Canada for a book signing last week and I knew I would be seeing family and friends. Naturally, since I know I have this problem, I worked out a system. When someone asked me for an autograph I would simply ask him or her who I should make it out to, and how do you spell that.
It was the perfect solution until my husband’s cousin, who I know really well, brought a book to be autographed. "Who shall I make this out to Randy?"
He smiled. "My wife." I know her really well too but. . .
"I want to make sure I get it right. Can you spell it for me?"
"S...A...M." He spelled it slow and looked me in the eye.
I had just perfected a new way to humiliate myself.