Diary of a Professional Overthinker – Entry 2.

 

When I forget names, my brain doesn’t come up with *syntax error* accompanied by a bleep, like most peoples. Instead, it installs a system patch. 

It’s not such an issue when I can easily differentiate between the person’s real name and my brain’s solution to ‘covering tracks’ if the patch job creates a fictional character name. For example, the lady with the rectangular face and overbite becomes known as Zoot — the teal coloured saxophonist from The Muppet Show’s Dr Teeth and the Electric Mayhem band. It’s obvious this isn’t her name, so if I have dealings with her, I’m prompted to apologetically ask her name, in which case I learn that it is Narelle.

Problems arise when the patch creates a convincing name. And becomes even more dangerous when the name sticks!

This issue has become increasingly noticeable since my decision to return to study. I am attending classes and meeting many new people… with many new names. Alongside learning class content and new names, I’m also learning how to confidently ask questions. It’s particularly unhelpful to my esteem when I gain the courage to raise my hand and ask a teacher, ‘Excuse me, Margaret, when is this assessment due?’

To get the response, ‘Who’s Margaret?’

Last week during lunch break I bumped into a nice lady who I hadn’t seen since last semester. She beamed at me. ‘Katherine, how are you?’

I smiled back, ‘Hi Sue. I’m well thanks, how’s—’

She interrupted me, ‘It’s Anne.’ 

At this point my brain began a tango, but with a grenade instead of a rose clutched between its teeth. 

I have the ability to put on a friendly face to match a fellow student’s pleasantries… If only that ability extended to lying.  

‘Oh, I’m so sorry Anne, I got muddled because I was just speaking with Sue.’ I pointed to a group of people I noticed in my periphery. 

She glanced over to the group. A frown formed.

I glanced over. 

The group was made up entirely of men.

As you can imagine, this problem hasn’t helped me in my attempts to make new friends. At least Sue, I mean Anne has spoken to me again since, which means she has most likely forgiven me (for now). But some mismatched names have completely ruined potential friendships and ostracised me forever — I accidentally called a Middle Eastern man Mohamed and was corrected with, ‘My name’s Paul.’ 

This came with the horrifying realisation that the patch job can not only be wrong, but racist!

There have been other embarrassing moments too, courtesy of my brain’s patching mechanism, like the time I asked the neighbour who was called Bob, ‘Are you a builder?’ 

He replied, ‘No, I’m a neurologist.’ 

Bob and I had a moment then, where he peered at me, where I did my damndest to keep a straight face and peer back, all while chanting to myself, I am completely normal, I am not a case study, please don’t ask me to make an appointment. 

I’ve come to accept my brain’s bug-fix software. I only wish it came with a control-alt-delete function for moments when an unscheduled update has been installed without permission.