Del.icio.us
Digg
Reddit
Facebook
StumbleUpon
TwitThisRacking My Brain!
And even though I have a secret signal with my husband that involves my pinching him very hard on the upper arm—a signal that means “Throw your name at this person because I have no idea whom I’m talking to”—my husband always forgets the secret signal. He can’t be counted on to respond to my pinching, even when it produces a bruise.I would like to chew my husband out about his forgetfulness on this point, but I’m not exactly in a position to do so, since I myself have forgotten (if I ever knew it) the name of the person I’m talking to.
Old friends? We must be. You’re delighted to see me. I’m delighted to see you. But who are you? Oh my God, you’re Jane. I can’t believe it. Jane.
“Jane! How are you? It’s been—how long has it been?”
I’d like to suggest that the reason I didn’t recognize you right off the bat is that you’ve done something to your hair. But you’ve done nothing to your hair, nothing that would excuse my not recognizing you.
What you’ve actually done is gotten older. I don’t believe it.
You used to be my age, and now you’re much, much, much older than I am. You could be my mother. Unless of course I look as old as you and I don’t know it.
Which is not possible.
Or is it?
I’m looking around the room and I notice that everyone in it looks like someone, and when I try to figure out exactly who that someone is, it turns out to be a former version of herself, a thinner version or a healthier version or a pre-plastic-surgery version or a taller version.
If this is true of everyone, it must be true of me. Mustn’t it?
But never mind: You are speaking.
“Maggie,” you say. “It’s been so long.”
“I’m not Maggie,” I say.
“Oh my God,” you say. “It’s you. I didn’t recognize you. You’ve done something to your hair.”
Advertisement 
feeds instead
