I was scolded only yesterday for making the statement that I do not possess the power over men that some women do. I have no lingering impact when all is said and done. Oh, a guy might remember my big hooters or the fact that I'm tall, but overall, I have a tendency to be the girl least likely to be a keeper. At least for the time being that is true. Save all your pep talks and reassurance that there is someone out there just for me. Nickelback ruined that concept with their power-pop-rock song.
A mere week ago, I was at work going about my usual routine of working, inputting paper work for the day. It was early evening and a name that was strikingly familiar popped up on the screen. Due to the familiarity, I cautiously looked out on the retail floor to see if a recognized anyone. The coast was clear. No faces that rang a bell were to be seen. The uniqueness of this name was undoubtedly the child of someone I've written about on this blog. ARM aka Asshat Running Man. He's the guy I met at the laundromat and dated very briefly. You can read about it in the archives.
Archives: Ancient history. Or so one would think.
After going on with the evening, an associate came into the lab informing me a tall, well dressed, good looking bald man was asking about me. In detail he described me and gushed as if he was carrying a torch. I knew, due to the name recognition from earlier, that it was ARM.
With a heavy sigh and reluctance, I made my appearance. With his back to his child (no introductions or acknowledgement of his presence), he says quietly, "I'm sorry I was a jerk." To that I replied, "I'm sorry you're a jerk, too." At that remark, he grabbed at his heart as if he'd been impaled with a dagger.
I made certain to never directly face him. I was consciously aware of my body language. With arms crossed and keeping a diagonal stance, he continued to talk as I looked around the store. My co-lab partner came out to discuss something with an associate and I averted my attention to that conversation.
Blah blah blah I turned back with a glance that would imply the question "oh, are you still talking?"
ARM asked if I still had his phone number. Yeah, right. The last conversation I had with him was me telling him to lose my number and to never seek me out again.
He inquired if I'd be willing to accept one of his business cards. He didn't have any with him at the time, but he'd drop one by at a later date. I told him with a shrug to do what he wanted to. Then, I insisted I needed to return to work. He thanked me for stepping out to say hello. As I went to open the lab door he bawked out, "don't forget!" To which I screwed up my face and asked, "don't forget what?" He pantomimed a rectangular shape, "My business card."
I shook my head and made my way back to work. GAH! Of all the nerve. The associate who had waited on his son came back to the lab to report that ARM is quite a shmoozer. She shared that he used her name frequently, made intense eye contact and asked that she tell me, once again, good bye.
I didn't figure he'd follow through on his suggestion to drop off a business card. He doesn't have a good track record for being reliable. I was mistaken.
On Wednesday evening, my day off, he returned to the store to leave his card. He, again, began describing me, but the young woman helping him tried to get him to say my name. She's no fool. I hadn't even told her about his previous visit. According to her, the nuckfut stammered and stumbled remembering my name. MY NAME! The asshatdouchebaggetynumbnut couldn't remember the name MARISSA. I spent hours with this man last summer and he couldn't recall my first name? I could remember his son's name, but he had no cognitive recollection of seven letters that make up my official moniker?
I'm pretty certain in all the books about wooing a woman, there isn't a rule stating that women love it when you don't remember their name. Nothing good comes from forgetting something as vital as a woman's name, guys. Jerry Seinfeld learned that.