Do You Remember Me?

           Somebody comes up to me and asks, “Do you remember me?” they might as well square up and give me a real Superbowl punt kick to the groin, ‘cause I prob’ly don’t.  I’m terrible like that.

            Even people I know ask me that and I think to myself, ‘Well, I thought I did.  You’ve got me second-guessing, now.  Why are you asking?  Have I been staring?’ 

I’ve had family ask me that, old friends, old acquaintances, high school folk, I even had an ex-girlfriend ask me not that long ago.  I was shocked.  As a matter of principle you should always make note of anyone you have seen naked.  Unless it’s in a locker room or public place, in which case it is prob’ly best to block out as best you can.

            It gets to be almost a little insulting.  Or maybe I’m just overreacting. 

Maybe they’re just being polite by asking first.  Just to make sure. 

I am defensive, I admit.  Had the ex ask me that and I thought, ‘Man, are my eyes that red?  Do I smell that bad?  Am I that poor?  What is it about me that my own ex-girlfriend would ask me that?  I admit it was a short-lived romance, but come on!’  

            Anyway, I am pretty bad about it.  Aside from the ex, I can’t remember the last time that question brought forth a happy answer.  I can remember a few times it didn’t.  Thankfully, there isn’t much of a story to tell.  Nothing too painfully awkward.  Just stoney silence.  I can live with that when I have to. 

            Alcoholism is a tragic ordeal and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.  But at least I have that in my past, when it comes to that question.  “Do you remember me?”  “Hmmmn, was the bar involved?”  “Yeah.”  “Oh, well, there you go.  I sure don’t.” 

Doesn’t mean I was blacked out drunk.  Or even tipsy.   But the bar is one place where the value of a man is not determined by his capacity to remember things.  I do like that about it.