It happened again. I'm in line at Starbuck's, waiting to order coffee when the woman behind the counter says, "Hi, Olive! How are you today?"
I was still half asleep and caffeine deprived, so I just looked at her and said, "I'd be much better if I was Lorraine." And then apologized. Because I knew her from seeing her at various art happenings and the farmer's market, and I felt a wee bit bad about being snarky.
I was still half asleep and caffeine deprived, so I just looked at her and said, "I'd be much better if I was Lorraine." And then apologized. Because I knew her from seeing her at various art happenings and the farmer's market, and I felt a wee bit bad about being snarky.
But not much.
I shared this story with my friend Mary the day after it happened, and she helped me laugh away the crankiness of being "Ms. Taken" yet again. We made tentative plans to meet later at an art show that night and I left feeling better about things.
At the art show, the barrista that had mistaken me for Olive was there. She came over and said, "Hello, Lorraine." and we laughed about the earlier encounter. As I turned after our greeting, out of the corner of my eye I saw a young man, waving at me, saying, "Hi, Olive!". He realized his mistake when I had turned completely around, mumbling, "I thought you were Olive."
Standing right there behind him was Mary, who just looked at me and dissolved into laughter. As I left to go to Hasting for tea with another friend, she said, "So, you're going to go somewhere where they know your name? " and grinned. We agreed I needed a "Cheers" moment. (And I got it, too, when I got to Hastings. Yay!)
My crankiness about the whole thing has to do with getting older, feeling like you're fading into oblivion, having younger people see your graying hair and mistaking it for your brain leaking away. Inside your gray head and body gone south, you still feel 14 or 16 or 35, and your mind is whirling with a thousand wonderful ideas. But all people are seeing is old, with all the connotations "old" has in our youth orientated society, whether they're true or not.
Part of it is my fault, I'll admit. I tend to be a hermit, avoid large parties/crowds, don't join civic groups. So while I've lived up to my reputation of an older "in" (invisible and inaudible), lately I've begun to wonder, "Am I really that unremarkable?"
All of my life, I've said that it was the little things that counted to us, made a difference in our lives. A hug. An enthusiastic wave from across the street. A postcard from Spain or Rome or wherever friends got to go this year for vacation. A cup of tea with a friend.
Our names, slipping off another's tongue.
My name had the distinction of being chosen for me by my father, who in a time when every little girl was named Karen or Kathy or Debbie, gave me a distinctive moniker. (Apparently he knew I was going to need it!) He never allowed anyone to call me "Lori" or my sister Susette "Sue", something I have always been grateful for.
I've always tried to remember people's names. Granted, it's much harder now with cognitive overload (aren't we glad we have computers to blame now?) and getting older, but I try. And if I'm not 100% of someone's name, I'll ask. Rude? Maybe. But which would you rather encounter: someone who couldn't remember your name for whatever reason, and didn't bother to figure it out; or someone who cared enough to refresh their memory and their remembrance of you?
I'll take the latter, any day. Because I know that the reason for their forgetfulness is that they might not have seen me for years, or their parents are sick and take up their every thought, or any of a million other reasons.
So the next time you run into someone and you just can't remember their name, 'fess up.
I won't mind, just as long as you don't call me Olive. :)
I shared this story with my friend Mary the day after it happened, and she helped me laugh away the crankiness of being "Ms. Taken" yet again. We made tentative plans to meet later at an art show that night and I left feeling better about things.
At the art show, the barrista that had mistaken me for Olive was there. She came over and said, "Hello, Lorraine." and we laughed about the earlier encounter. As I turned after our greeting, out of the corner of my eye I saw a young man, waving at me, saying, "Hi, Olive!". He realized his mistake when I had turned completely around, mumbling, "I thought you were Olive."
Standing right there behind him was Mary, who just looked at me and dissolved into laughter. As I left to go to Hasting for tea with another friend, she said, "So, you're going to go somewhere where they know your name? " and grinned. We agreed I needed a "Cheers" moment. (And I got it, too, when I got to Hastings. Yay!)
My crankiness about the whole thing has to do with getting older, feeling like you're fading into oblivion, having younger people see your graying hair and mistaking it for your brain leaking away. Inside your gray head and body gone south, you still feel 14 or 16 or 35, and your mind is whirling with a thousand wonderful ideas. But all people are seeing is old, with all the connotations "old" has in our youth orientated society, whether they're true or not.
Part of it is my fault, I'll admit. I tend to be a hermit, avoid large parties/crowds, don't join civic groups. So while I've lived up to my reputation of an older "in" (invisible and inaudible), lately I've begun to wonder, "Am I really that unremarkable?"
All of my life, I've said that it was the little things that counted to us, made a difference in our lives. A hug. An enthusiastic wave from across the street. A postcard from Spain or Rome or wherever friends got to go this year for vacation. A cup of tea with a friend.
Our names, slipping off another's tongue.
My name had the distinction of being chosen for me by my father, who in a time when every little girl was named Karen or Kathy or Debbie, gave me a distinctive moniker. (Apparently he knew I was going to need it!) He never allowed anyone to call me "Lori" or my sister Susette "Sue", something I have always been grateful for.
I've always tried to remember people's names. Granted, it's much harder now with cognitive overload (aren't we glad we have computers to blame now?) and getting older, but I try. And if I'm not 100% of someone's name, I'll ask. Rude? Maybe. But which would you rather encounter: someone who couldn't remember your name for whatever reason, and didn't bother to figure it out; or someone who cared enough to refresh their memory and their remembrance of you?
I'll take the latter, any day. Because I know that the reason for their forgetfulness is that they might not have seen me for years, or their parents are sick and take up their every thought, or any of a million other reasons.
So the next time you run into someone and you just can't remember their name, 'fess up.
I won't mind, just as long as you don't call me Olive. :)
