I have one of those faces. You know, the one where no matter where you go, people say, "I think I've met you before. You look so familiar."
I also have this friend, Olive. She's got long, fairly straight, medium blond hair and green eyes. I have short, generously salted and curly brunette hair and brown eyes, hidden behind glasses. She's more of a pear shape; I'm a definite pineapple. She's pretty much always in jeans and sneakers; the only denim I own is a tank dress, and I only wear sneakers to work in the yard. She's rarely seen with a handbag; I am usually leaning to the left from my tote bag. She has a nice smile, but mine comes with a side of dimples.
In other words, we don't look that much alike. The only trait we have in common is that we're short and . . .um. . . .rotund. Yeah. Plump. (Okay, I have no trouble saying I'm fat, but I'm not sure how Olive feels about the "F" word.)
So why is it that I frequently get mistaken for her, even when we are sitting at the same table, eating breakfast? There's one young man, a visual artist who knows both of us, who looks at me, nods, says, "Hello, Olive." to me and ignores Olive. He's done it at least 3 times that I know of, and each time, Olive and I dissolved into laughter. He had to know something was going on, but he never bothered to take a second look. I wonder if ever he talks about looking for detail in his classes, or if his students tend to be as oblivious as he appears to be when it comes to telling women apart.
He's not the first person to mistake me for Olive. The first time it happened, it was with a young woman who had just met me the week before. I was at an art opening when she came up to me, gave me a huge hug, and said, "It's been forever since I've seen you! I've missed you so much." I was a bit startled; after all, I generally don't make such a deep and lasting impression the first time out. But I gladly accepted the hug and chatted with her for a few minutes, until I saw the realization creeping across her face that she had the wrong person.
"Oh, my gosh, I'm so sorry, I can't believe I thought you were Olive." She blushed, then said, "I hope you didn't mind that I hugged you." When I assured her I didn't she apologized again and made her escape.
And I didn't mind, really. I've been in training for being a perpetual walking case of mistaken identity since that day in the park during Little Balkans Days, when a woman walked up to me and said, "How are you? Are you still teaching at the university?"
I looked at her and said, "I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else. I've never taught at the university; I don't even have a college degree." What I really wanted to do was fall on the grass and roll around laughing. Me? Teach? College students? I'd barely gotten the dogs through obedience school!
"Oh, but you did. Don't you remember me? I sat on the front row in the printmaking class." She waited, looking for my remembrance of her.
"I'm sorry, I've never taught at the university, much less taken a class in the graphics art department. You must be looking for someone else."
Now, most folks who are told that you've never taught, don't have the degree to teach at university level, and that you don't know them from a text book usually realize they've got the wrong person.
Not this woman. For the next 4 years, every fall at the Little Balkans Festival, she would go through the same routine with me. And every year, except the last, I tried to convince her that I was not her printmaking professor.
The last time, I said, "Why, yes, I remember you! What are you doing these days?" and left it at that. It was the last time I ever saw her. Makes me think she might have been stalking me at the festival, determined to make me admit she was my student.
Being mistaken for Olive has happened often enough that I've decided that I need a button. A picture of a green olive in one of those red circles with cross hatch signs. "No(t) Olive." I'd get one for her of a rain drop in the red circle, but she doesn't need it.
You see, she's never been mistaken for me.
Or at least I didn't think so, until today. Today, I opened the mail box and got a letter addressed to Olive at my house. I'm still waiting to unravel this one.
Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion! I'm sure we'll get it sorted out soon. I hope. :)
I also have this friend, Olive. She's got long, fairly straight, medium blond hair and green eyes. I have short, generously salted and curly brunette hair and brown eyes, hidden behind glasses. She's more of a pear shape; I'm a definite pineapple. She's pretty much always in jeans and sneakers; the only denim I own is a tank dress, and I only wear sneakers to work in the yard. She's rarely seen with a handbag; I am usually leaning to the left from my tote bag. She has a nice smile, but mine comes with a side of dimples.
In other words, we don't look that much alike. The only trait we have in common is that we're short and . . .um. . . .rotund. Yeah. Plump. (Okay, I have no trouble saying I'm fat, but I'm not sure how Olive feels about the "F" word.)
So why is it that I frequently get mistaken for her, even when we are sitting at the same table, eating breakfast? There's one young man, a visual artist who knows both of us, who looks at me, nods, says, "Hello, Olive." to me and ignores Olive. He's done it at least 3 times that I know of, and each time, Olive and I dissolved into laughter. He had to know something was going on, but he never bothered to take a second look. I wonder if ever he talks about looking for detail in his classes, or if his students tend to be as oblivious as he appears to be when it comes to telling women apart.
He's not the first person to mistake me for Olive. The first time it happened, it was with a young woman who had just met me the week before. I was at an art opening when she came up to me, gave me a huge hug, and said, "It's been forever since I've seen you! I've missed you so much." I was a bit startled; after all, I generally don't make such a deep and lasting impression the first time out. But I gladly accepted the hug and chatted with her for a few minutes, until I saw the realization creeping across her face that she had the wrong person.
"Oh, my gosh, I'm so sorry, I can't believe I thought you were Olive." She blushed, then said, "I hope you didn't mind that I hugged you." When I assured her I didn't she apologized again and made her escape.
And I didn't mind, really. I've been in training for being a perpetual walking case of mistaken identity since that day in the park during Little Balkans Days, when a woman walked up to me and said, "How are you? Are you still teaching at the university?"
I looked at her and said, "I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else. I've never taught at the university; I don't even have a college degree." What I really wanted to do was fall on the grass and roll around laughing. Me? Teach? College students? I'd barely gotten the dogs through obedience school!
"Oh, but you did. Don't you remember me? I sat on the front row in the printmaking class." She waited, looking for my remembrance of her.
"I'm sorry, I've never taught at the university, much less taken a class in the graphics art department. You must be looking for someone else."
Now, most folks who are told that you've never taught, don't have the degree to teach at university level, and that you don't know them from a text book usually realize they've got the wrong person.
Not this woman. For the next 4 years, every fall at the Little Balkans Festival, she would go through the same routine with me. And every year, except the last, I tried to convince her that I was not her printmaking professor.
The last time, I said, "Why, yes, I remember you! What are you doing these days?" and left it at that. It was the last time I ever saw her. Makes me think she might have been stalking me at the festival, determined to make me admit she was my student.
Being mistaken for Olive has happened often enough that I've decided that I need a button. A picture of a green olive in one of those red circles with cross hatch signs. "No(t) Olive." I'd get one for her of a rain drop in the red circle, but she doesn't need it.
You see, she's never been mistaken for me.
Or at least I didn't think so, until today. Today, I opened the mail box and got a letter addressed to Olive at my house. I'm still waiting to unravel this one.
Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion! I'm sure we'll get it sorted out soon. I hope. :)
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