I’m going to be someone who remembers names for Halloween

I don’t think it should be socially acceptable for people to say that they are “bad with names.” No one is bad at names. That is not a real thing. Not knowing people’s names isn’t a neurological condition; it’s a choice. You choose not to make learning people’s names a priority. It’s like saying, “Hey, a disclaimer about me: I’m rude.” For heaven’s sake, if you don’t know someone’s name, just pretend you do. Do that thing everyone else does, where you vaguely say, “Nice to see you!” and make weak eye contact.

—Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) By Mindy Kaling

After reading Kaling’s book in one day-long airport dosage, this quote has me surfing some shame-turbulence. It’s not that I’m bad with names, generally. It’s that I can’t remember the names of people I already know, specifically.

Oh, I do the whole networking 101 repeat the name immediately after you learn it. I remember it after I learn it, then conveniently forget it after you and I develop a regular rapport. Yes, I’ve even tried the TV memory-evangelist trick of name-association and visualization. However, When I can’t remember the name “Turner,” the movie Turner & Hooch never pulls through like I rely on it to. A former boss of mine favored the “Remind me of your name?” approach, but that gets awkward when it involves people familiar to me for yyyyears.

For example: I see you—you whom I’ve known for half a decade, with whom my children have play-dated, and with whom I schoolyard-kibbitz on a daily basis—and my brain starts flinging random 1970s era names at me. If you call yourself Julie, my brain says Sarah. If your parents named you Sarah, my brain prefers Julie. If your Christian name derives from any of the 75 variations on Kristin/Kirstin/Christine/Kjirsten (see also Elisa/Alyssa/Alisa, Jews), behold my frantic lips trying to shape names whilst mine eyes smile in terror.

Given that my other recall-faculties seem in tact, I’ve ruled out early-dementia. While I’d love to claim “baby brain,” that ship sailed when my kids started reading my tweets. I do wonder about synesthesia. Maybe the names Sarah and Julie taste the same to my brain, creating a closed JULIE-SARAH-JULIE-SARAH feedback loop. I find myself caught in a name-vortex going around and around, like the tether ball I see those two 25-year-olds-posing-as–fifth-graders constantly whipping at each other in the schoolyard.

My mom chalks it up to heredity, like the promise-of-bunions lording over my feet patiently waiting for their October (fill in the year) surprise. She also suggested perhaps I know too many people—what with all of you internet folk. One friend reported short-term memory loss during a stressful time—heck I suppose it could even relate to hormonal changes. At least she gave me hope that my rudeness might prove temporary.

Regardless, I need a coping strategy. As Kahling suggests, I do pretend. I address friends and loved-ones alike with the tu informal “Hey Friend!” But when directly questioned “Who else is joining us for lunch?” nodding, smiling, and singing who’szoominwho neither provides a satisfactory response nor instills confidence in my sanity.

Maybe I simply need to re-brand: It’s not that I’m bad with names. I’m just really good at giving out new ones.

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Prayers for help and strength for Super-storm Sandy victims—that you and yours and your property are safe, secure and dry. Hope my buffoonery brightens your day. Hope that electricity brightens your day even more.