Yesterday, I started going blind.

Not totally-can’t-see-anything-and-my-other-senses-kicked-in-and-I-could-smell-the-sun-slowly-dying blind, but fuzzy and blurry and I-can’t-stand-to-look-at-a-computer-screen blind.

Which is unfortunate, as a computer screen plays a rather large role in my real-life job.

I’m telling you all this as an explanation for why yesterday’s That Awkward Moment post never went up.

(Also, last night I realized I had a migraine.)

(So, turns out my eye-laser battle didn’t destroy my sight.)

(Whew.)

(Not that I couldn’t rock a cane.)

(And wouldn’t appreciate a socially acceptable reason for constantly falling down.)

But this post isn’t about my blindness or my awkwardness or my inability to remember anybody’s name.

(If I have met you a couple of times and you’re male? When talking to my friends, I refer to you as “boy.”)

(If you come up often? I’ve probably given you a more specific name, like “bus boy” (a boy Skye met on a bus), or “dress boy” (a friend of Sharon’s who once put on a dress), or “boy boy” (a name that actually doesn’t refer to a specific boy, but is what I say when I reference “boy” to a friend and said friend isn’t sure whom I mean and I say in emphasis and annoyance because how is that not obvious?!).)

This post is about Andie, from Inspiration Strikes. In the Kneecaps. and her inability to tell people apart.

I’m quite exciting to be guest-posting for Megan today. I’ll let you in on a little secret… this is my first time, so be gentle.

(Come on guys, don’t let me down.)

(This gal deserves some hilarious comments and visits.)

(Or at least an emoticon.)

I spent about five years working in a convenience store. I found that people would recognize me outside of my place of employment and say hello or strike up conversation and I, lacking context in which to place them, wouldn’t have a clue who they were or how I knew them. Sometimes I would mix people up with OTHER people who would say hello.

(And that is why I never say hello.)

(That, and a fear of serial killers.)

(They prey on salutators.)

(Which, according to the dictionary, isn’t a real word.)

(Shows how little that Merriam knows his English.)

(How else would you describe someone who is always there with a salutation?)

(Seriously, how would you?)

In fact, there is currently a gentleman at my local coffee shop (which rhymes with Schmim Worton’s) who consistently says hello to me and I still haven’t figured out if I know him or he’s simply being friendly and/or vaguely creepy.

(I seriously cannot figure out the coffee shop referred to above.)

(I might not be smart enough for this guest post.)

This story has nothing to do with all that. Be warned, the following may reflect poorly on my character.

Back in university I had the privilege of playing a few small parts in a theatre production. Specifically, a rock musical based loosely on the Columbine Massacre. This is not the part that is supposed to reflect poorly on me, as it was far more tasteful than it sounds. I played a bitchy student, an elderly teacher and the negligent and apparently horny parent of one of the gunmen. The whole Stiffler’s Mom/MILF thing was still popular at the time, so I ran with it.

(I cannot decide if I’m horrified or want to see that musical.)

(Probably both.)

The day of our dress rehearsal, we had brought in a bunch of extras/victims to populate the climax scene. I chatted up one of the extras, a friendly and attractive young lad, for about an hour before being informed that said attractive young lad was actually the new boyfriend of a good friend of mine. Upon finding out this little tidbit of info, I sought her out. I found her, prepping the set and asked her:

“We’re friends right? Like, good friends?”
“Yes, of course? Why?”
“As a friend, can you, I don’t know.. INTRODUCE me to your boyfriend before I spend an hour flirting with him? Thanks.”
“Huh? Really?”
“Yup. I’ll stop now.”

There were no hard feelings and we had a good laugh about it, and the show went on.

Okay, here’s where I start to look bad.

(Finally, am I right?)

So a few months later I was out bar-hopping with a couple of friends of mine to celebrate the end of one hellish term of Statistical analysis and making it out of the exam alive. We had started out at one bar but moved to another one downtown after my friend got kicked out.

(I have never gotten kicked out of a bar.)

(Where did my life go so wrong?)

At the second bar, I was greeted by a vaguely attractive young man out on the patio (I was still smoking at the time.) He asks ‘Hey, remember me?’ and of course, I do but just not where from. I make a few stabs…

“Oh, you’re {name redacted}’s friend aren’t you?”
“Who? No..”
“Oh, you’re that guy I bought the guitar off, right?”
“No, I’m {name redacted}.”

Forehead slap, amirite? So we chatted for a bit, he mentioned breaking up with the aforementioned friend of mine sometime ago, which I already knew, seeing as she was a friend of mine. Smalltalk, smalltalk, I go dance some more and drink some more. Did I mention drink some more?

I’m a bit of an inappropriately affectionate drunk, if you must know. In my defence, I was not sloppy drunk by any means, but the drinks I did have, coupled with the general sense of joviality throughout the evening had the usual effect.

What was the end result?

I’m glad you asked.

The end result was that when I met up with the lad as my friends and I were leaving the bar, I decided it’d be a good idea to say a hearty good-bye.

To his tonsils.

With my tongue.

(They were probably lonely.)

(So, rather thoughtful of you, really.)

Yes, I am full of class. Hey, at least I’m not a belligerent drunk.

He was left dumbstruck as I pulled away, giggled and chirped “Well…. Have a good night!” and skipped away.

Here’s where it gets REALLY awkward.

So, let’s fast forward a year. Another friend and I decide to go bowling. The bowling alley in question is located in the local mall and for reasons that eluded us, we were having a hell of a time finding it. I know what you’re thinking.. How do you not find a bowling alley in a mall? Renovations that obscure the bowling alley entrance. So yeah, helluva time locating the bowling alley. As we were circling the mall, occasionally knocking on walls as if hoping to open some enchanted entrance a la Hogwarts, a young security guard passed us a few times, giving a friendly nod each time.

The third or so time this happened, my friend gave me the raised-eyebrow-grin which roughly translates to “My my! This gentleman seems to fancy you!”

Fancy, or merely recognize? Oh, the latter it turns out. On go-round number four he comes up to me and no sooner did the words “you don’t remember me, do you?” left his lips did my memory kick into high gear and I recalled who he was.. And how I had greeted him. Oy. Still couldn’t remember his name though, although I tried my damnedest to fake it. He saw right through me though. Sheepishly I defended myself for not remembering him by pointing out that the last time I had seen him, I had been “a little drunk.”

“Oh yeah. You sure were,” was his response. Gah.

So yeah, I feigned ignorance and let him believe I didn’t even remember attempting to sample his epliglottis on our last encounter. I am not proud. I’m not well schooled in the etiquette of flirting with someone, forgetting their name and face, engaging in some not-entirely-consensual tonsil hockey and then forgetting their face yet again. I made a judgement call and decided it’d be better to be considered a blackout drunk.

(That reminds me of a memo I have on my phone of a quote from a friend.)

(I didn’t write down which friend, or even the context.)

(But it reads, “how drunk was she?” -me; “so drunk she’s going to claim she was roofied so it’s less embarrassing.” -someone I didn’t bother to memorialize, possibly with their blessing.)

That’s preferable, right? No? Oh geez.

On that note, dear {name redacted}, I hope if you stumble upon this story and recognize the details I hope you understand that you have been redacted for privacy’s sake and not because I still can’t, for the life of me, remember your name.

No. Really.

I mean that.