The Name Game

“Hey,” I said, “How’s it going?”

“What’s my name?” he asked directly, making even myself, the Queen of bluntness, cringe. Apparently, he had enough of my habit of replacing names with generic, one-size-fits-all greetings, and called me out.

After doing a mental fact check of what I remembered about his familiar face- he graduated in my high school class, was captain of the football team, dressed as a cheerleader on color day and was a generally nice guy- I still came up blank. “I can’t even remember my own name most days” was my weak, but honest answer, as he shook his head in mock disgust and walked away, taking the mystery of his name with him. 

I’ve always had difficulty with names, a problem exaggerated by the sheer volume of people I interact with on a daily basis between my work, volunteer efforts and social life. Or maybe I just don’t pay attention when I’m introduced the first time, making it increasingly awkward to admit to someone who later becomes important in my life that I never did quite catch their name when we met years ago.

Being part of the Wicked Running Club with a few hundred members has only exaggerated this problem, as “Go Wicked!” has become my race mantra, a convenient cover up to my cranial name cramp. Working the registration table at races is a challenge, as friendly faces peek through the crowd and say “Hey Beth, I’m here to check in!” causing me to break into a cold sweat as I search through hundreds of names hoping one will jump out at me. “How do you spell that again?” is a helpful cover, as is introducing them to someone else, hoping they will trade names and take me off the hook.

Attending business conferences where I’ve seen the same people twice a year for decades, I still listen intently at the introduction session, writing cues next to each name, a cheat sheet I keep closely guarded to prevent anyone from seeing identifying words such as “freckles, big smile, ugly shirt, grouchy” next to their name.

I know I’m not alone in my moniker malfunction, so you’ll be happy to know I’m taking you all off the hook if you come across my familiar face and can’t remember my name. Even my own mother calls me at least two or three names before she lands on mine, some of those names not even the same gender, and my ex in-laws called me Betty for almost a decade. And I once got a final bill from a doctor who had treated me for years, with my last name seriously misspelled- this from someone who was paid to listen.

And I’m more than happy to trade “Beth” for terms of endearment like “hon” and “dear” directed towards me at my morning coffee stop, acknowledging I’m a familiar face albeit one of hundreds they regularly serve.

But not everyone is as lenient as me about his or her name.

A few years back I recall a high school basketball star choosing North Caroline over Duke, because Duke didn’t spell his name right on the letter of interest. And I once called a potential applicant for a job whose name on his resume was William, asking, “Can I speak to Bill?” to the deadpan response of “You must have the wrong number.” “Wait! How about Billy? Will?” before I finally used his proper name, “William”. While I now realize now how presumptuous it was of me to assume such familiarity, he still works with me almost 20 years later, and he still goes by ‘William’.

But lest you think I’m an uncaring, arrogant egomaniac who doesn’t care who you are, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Because while I may not always remember your name, I’ll never forget how you made me feel. And in the scope of life, isn’t that what really matters?