Getting Lost Down Memory Lane

I was in Columbus at a Barnes & Noble recently, perusing the history section. Big history guy here as you know. Anyway, I’d grabbed a couple books and was headed out when I heard my name being called . . .

“Dave? Is that you?”

I turned to look and three women were walking towards me, one of which was the person who’d called my name. They were well dressed, attractive ladies who appeared to be on a weekday shopping excursion. Who they were was a mystery to me.

“Dave! It’s been years! Where have you been? What have you been up to?” 

I’ve been in these situations before with men, women and kids, and my usual modus operandi is to pretend I know them, ask some relevant questions, and sort feel them out with the hope that something will click in my addled brain and I’ll remember to whom it is I’m talking.

In this case, though, nothing was clicking.

As we talked, though, I did garner information. I hadn’t seen this person in over 25-years, she was married to an attorney in Columbus, and although she had that psychology degree she’d worked so hard for she’d never used it.

Still, nothing.

How did I know this person? Through family? School? Politics? Sports? I was lost, man.

I must have been looking at her a little too intently, because she finally paused, cocked her head, and said this:

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Crap. I’d been called out. At this point I figured I could either say, “Of course I do!” and take my chances, but I was afraid she’d say “What’s my name, then?” and I’d then be exposed as not only an insensitive, forgetful fool but also a liar.

So, I decided to be honest . . .

“No, I don’t. I’m terrible with faces. I’m so sorry.”

It was then she dropped the hammer:

“We dated for three months in college.”

Crickets.

She stared.

I stared.

Her friends stared.

Somewhere, a loon called.

What to do? Well, what I wanted to do was crawl under the nearby Nora Roberts book display, get in the fetal position, and suck my thumb.

Instead, I sort of stammered another apology, because really, what could be said at that point? Three months? She wasn’t a casual acquaintance, a friend of a friend, even a business associate. And we hadn’t gone out on a few dates. We’d dated for three freakin’ months.

Good God.

The fact the her two friends witnessed this whole ordeal didn’t help a whole lot, and after a few stilted, awkward goodbyes I got a stilted, awkward hug and she left, undoubtedly muttering under her breath to her friends about what a horrible, insensitive person I’d become.

All I could do was watch them go, shaking my head at my callousness, unintentional as it was.

And you know something?

I still don’t remember that girl.