28th Sep 2002
Humbling Moment
Was at a goodbye party for Sam tonight. Goodbye Sam, I hope it’s safe to mention your name here at this point. We’ll miss you. Sorry again for YKW. Please give those Europeans a good talking to, if necessary, while you’re over there. We’ll keep NY warm for you if you decide to come back.
But the humbing moment was the beautiful woman at the party saying, “You don’t remember me? I can’t believe you don’t remember me?!”
Ugh. How to communicate how awful that feels?
Truth be told, I have a horrible memory. If any of you who know me and read this blog and don’t really realize that about me, there it is. If I ever forget your name, you have my apologies in advance. My paternal grandmother went completely senile before she died. I had the pleasure of seeing her one last time in the nursing home when she had no idea who I was, couldn’t make the connection of her son’s son. My dad is barely any better, and although his years are advancing at this point, he’s always been that way. My mom too. I’m not kidding. She was a corporate executive before she retired, and she had her deputy manager trained whenever they met someone in the hallway to promptly introduce herself so my mom wouldn’t have to try to come up with the name for the introdution herself.
So I attribute my own pathetic state only half to drugs and the balance to genetics. I’m bad with a lot of things — plans for the evening, lunch dates that never make it to my calendar, things I said 10 minutes ago, etc. But names and faces are especially tricky. This went over really well when I worked in PR.
You would think beautiful women might somehow have a better chance of standing out, but history demonstrates otherwise. Bad as tonight was, it was far from the worst. That would have to go to the time I met the girl I lost my virginity to some six years later, out of the context of suburban NJ and instead on 9th Ave & 43rd St in NY. Plus she was wearing huge sunglasses. My recollection of the scene now (see, some things are burned in the memory regardless) was seeing a good looking woman walk towards me and my thinking, “Hello, she’s hot. Hey, she’s checking me out! Whoa, she’s turning her head after me.” Then her saying “Ricky? Ricky Bruner?!” And me thinking, “Uh oh, who the hell is this?”
After a very, very awkward exchange, I managed to turn around and walk 10 blocks north with her, totally charmed with how smart, beautiful and sarcastic she was, thinking I might still be able to rekindle something (in the midst of a long romantic lull at the time). So I asked for her number and she said she was back living with her parents, and they were in the book. “That is,” she added, staring me piercingly in the eyes, “if you remember my last name.”
So totally busted.
Tonight, as I say, wasn’t quite that bad. I confirmed that she and I never had a torrid affair when we supposedly knew each other in the mid-90s. (Come to think of it, she was a bit evasive, along the lines of “I’m the last one who would know.” What the hell does that mean? Anyway, I’m pretty sure not.) Incredibly, she’s the ex-wife of a friend of mine, but I got to know him only after they had separated. (He’s even got a permalink on this very blog!)
But you were most gracious, A., and in case you’re reading, I’m sorry again, and I most look forward to getting to know you (again) here in NY.
The freakiest part? Both of these forgotten beauties have virtually the same name! Off by one letter. What does it mean? Oh, puny, puny brain…
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