This is how I introduce myself. Then, I force the handshake ritual.
What I get in return is a cold, dry, limp bag of bones thrust at me.
It’s up to me to shake it for them. Once that’s done I wait for their name.
I’ve given them mine now they are supposed to give me theirs.
Did they forget? Is it a secret? Are they in the witness relocation program?
Even those people have names, right? Nothing.
Sometimes I’ll get, “It’s nice to meet you.”
All they’re saying with that is, “It’s so nice for you to meet me.”
Most of the time it’s the mother’s of my daughter’s friends.
They’re meeting me for the first time and they’re dropping their kid off at my house.
That event might get me a spacey reply of, “I’m Donald’s mom.”
“I figured that out lady. Now, what I need to know, from you, is if Donald is as airy fairy as you.
And if he were to fall down and scrape his knee, who would I call and ask for?
So that I may find out which brand of bandage Donald is allergic to, and then I can give him one of those.”
I kept my name after I gave birth.
I’m always surprised and saddened by those women who didn’t.
What I finally ask is, “and you are….?”
The spell breaks, she blinks and from somewhere long ago in her past she remembers.
It took her too long, I no longer care. My politeness timed out. I immediately forget.
Besides from somewhere inside it sounds like someone needs a bandage.
So, let’s wrap this thing up. When I, or anyone else, says, “Hello, my name is….”
You are to firmly grasp their hand and if you can’t focus on their eyes at least look towards their face.
And if your Botox allows, smile.
Then, tell them your name.
Hello. My name is Heidi.