It seems that unmemorability runs in my family. Little Dating Brother recently attended a convention. He ran into a girl who he had met at the same convention several years ago and made out with on a subway. (I know, people don’t hook up on public transportation at the conventions I go to, either, but this was a gathering of young socialists. Apparently they swap spit instead of business cards.) The girl didn’t recognize LDB, so he played along and said it was nice to meet her, too.
Turns out the girl’s 2009 convention connection was with one of LDB’s best friends. After they’d hooked up and the convention was wrapping up, the girl told LDB how nice it was to meet him this week. LDB’s buddy, who hadn’t been around when they first re-met, said, “No, you’ve met before. You made out on a subway!”
“Oh my gosh,” the girl said. “You are Subway Guy.” Not remembering LDB’s actual name, she had given him a suitable title. I can sympathize. Even before I had the excuse of a blog to make up stupid names for my dates, I christened one hook-up as “Trolley Boy.” (Not what you’re thinking–he actually drove the trolley.)
So now that she had learned LDB’s name, she could stop thinking of him as Subway Guy, right? Turns out not. Like notches on a bedpost, this girl was trying to collect an entire alphabet of kissing conquests, and she wasn’t about to give up her completed S. She generously offered to add LDB’s real name in parentheses, though.
I think there’s a lesson in this for single, socialist guys: start practicing your xylophones.