Fake It Till You Make It

 

I couldn't get through the supermarket without seeing people I knew or who knew me. The encounters could add forty-five minutes of hellos to my mission on the weekends. I was a hospital nurse and had kids in the public school in a community I had lived for half my life; I knew everyone, or they knew me.

On return from the supermarket, my husband, The Unpleasable, invariably asked who I had seen. He was not interested socially. My usual response was, "Oh, no one, really. Mary from work." 

“Mary who?”

“Mary Kadigan. Works in tech.”

He didn’t know there was no Mary Kadigan in tech. She was fictional, my placeholder, a social thingamajig.  “Mary” satisfied him enough to stop hassling me. Though he sensed this was incomplete, Mary and I weren’t worth his time to pursue further. He made his point: he kept tabs on me when I was out of our house.

On a Saturday grocery expedition, I turned my cart into the pickle aisle. A cheerful, attractive woman turned from studying jars of Mount Olive.

“Oh my gosh! Hi! I haven’t seen you in ages! How are you? And the kids?” She had a generous smile and a stylish haircut.

I drew a total blank; I had no idea who she was. As she chattered, I listened for clues to tip me off to her identity. I learned long ago that instead of saying, "I'm sorry, I forgot your name," if I waited and listened, the other person would reveal personal details, and I'd figure it out. Confessing that I don't remember implies they weren't significant enough to retain their name. It was too uncomfortable; the pulse of my being was people pleasing.  

But there was no hint forthcoming.

"Oh, listen," she broke off. "I've got to run! See you again soon!"

She touched my hand resting on the cart handle and went on her way. I expected her name would come to me eventually.

I crossed paths with her at the supermarket, the pharmacy, or other generic places every few weeks. I did not see her at work or the schools, places with context.

Still, I did not confess to her that I was clueless about who she was. She was always so upbeat and pleased to see me that it was engaging and distracting. Eventually, dread began to eclipse my curiosity and pleasure. Sometimes, I would see her before she saw me, giving me a second or two to avoid her. I liked her, but not to get caught as a fraud.

 I perfected the supermarket end-aisle-dodge. I'd spy her jacket or hair from a distance or hear her speaking in her distinctive chirpy voice and scurry around the corner, unseen. Even when it meant skipping an item on my list, that was better than the "I'm going to get caught" anxiety.

 Once, when my twelve-year-old daughter was with me, I panicked. I grabbed her by the arm. "Come here, quick! Around the corner!" She resisted, pulling her arm back.

 “Mom! What’s with you? Let go!” I pulled her two aisles over. “Come on!” I hissed.

I made her sneak back with me so that she could see the Mystery Woman. “See her? Who is she? Do you know her?” I demanded. 

“No, Mom! Let go of me! You tell me!”

"I don't know; that's why I'm asking you. Her kids are in school with you."

"Okay. What're their names?"

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

"How would I know then? Get real, Mom. You can be such a weirdo! Why don't you ask her?" It was a statement of the obvious to her, not a question.

Over five or six years, Mystery Woman and I changed hairstyles, gained, and lost weight, joined and dropped out of Jazzercise, Curves, and Zoomba. We dished out endless "You look greats!" and encouragement like bottomless bar drinks. We raised kids from single digits to young teenagers on our platforms of failing marriages. And then alone when we got divorced (I learned her husband's name was Jim). We hugged and told each other that it would all be okay; things would get better. I wasn't always sure of that, and she probably wasn't either. But it's what you say in public. I withheld comment when she looked like hell, clearly wrung out by life. I'm sure she did the same for me. And all of this while buying Sloppy Joe mix, SpaghettiOs, and coffee. We'd heft our loaded grocery carts to the side, letting others pass by so we could update. I worried my frozen food items would thaw. She probably did, too. But my need for connection trumped my peas and corn. I hope she felt the same about her frozen pizza and Weight Watcher's meals. Though I knew her grocery preferences and had affection for her, I still didn't know her name.

At work, I told my friend Sharon about my dilemma. Thinking she might know her, I described Mystery Woman in detail, which I could do right down to her taste in jewelry and shoes. "Does she sound familiar?"

“No. Who is she?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you! I have no idea who she is. It’s gone on so long I can’t tell her I don’t know her name!”   I was a little shrill.

Sharon laughed. “Are you kidding me? You haven’t asked her? Why the hell not! That’s so crazy!”

I winced. Crazy? No, not crazy.

"I feel like a jerk! I never admit to people I don't know who they are. It's dismissive and sounds like they weren't worth my attention. It feels wrong. I don't want to be the cause of that, so I fake it. Don't you?"

"Hell no!" She declared. "I don't care what they think. I ask who they are. I'm not rude; I just admit I don't remember. What's wrong with that? It's honest."

“I don’t know…it just feels crappy, like I’m being insulting.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. Get over it. Tell her you don’t know who the F she is! Uh…not like that, obviously. You know what I mean.” She shook her head, chuckling as she went about her business.

I continued to run into Mystery Woman, my fear compounding with each encounter. I'd tell myself every time that I was finally going to fess up. I'd make a clever joke out of it, always my default. I was quick-witted, bawdy, irreverent, whatever it took to divert the other person. People said I was funny, but I didn't feel funny. I had dug a deep hole from which I could not get the courage to haul myself.

I knew there would be a day of reckoning for my dishonesty, my failure to own a less than perfect part of myself. I would be outed as a fraud. And that day did come. My neighbor Deanna's car, broke down, so we went to the supermarket. In the store lobby, we each got a cart. As I pulled mine out and turned, there was the Mystery Woman. I felt sick to my stomach. I prayed Deanna would go ahead into the store. I stalled, exchanging pleasantries hoping to avoid an introduction. Deanna wasn't moving along, and it was now awkward.

Touching the Mystery Woman's arm, I said, "Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry! I'm such a dope! I should introduce you!" Gesturing to my friend, I said, "This is my friend, Deanna. And Deanna, this is, uh…." Looking the Mystery Woman in the eye, I giggled. "Oh geez! I don't remember your maiden name! Are you using that or your married name?" Of course, I was full of bull. I didn't know any of her names, only that she was divorced. She giggled heartily, reaching to shake Deanna's hand.

“Ha! It’s Johnson again. Julie Johnson. Isn’t that easier than when it was Rigelletoni? What a nightmare that was! And not just the name!" Pleased with her double entendre, she laughed hard. I was so relieved to have saved face and pulled it off. After a few minutes, she went on her way.

Deanna said, “She’s delightful! I don’t remember you mentioning her before.”

"Oh, ah, I don't know her that well." Which wasn't exactly true anymore. I did know her well and had become quite fond of her; we were friends now. And so, I had to come clean. I was relieved.

A month later, I ran into Julie Johnson at the hardware store. For the first time, I called to her in an aisle. "Hey, Julie! How are ya?"  Her usual lighthearted, cheerful self, she prattled about her teenaged daughter giving her a headache, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation

“Ya, daughters will do that to you!” I laughed. “Listen, uh…I want to tell you something,” I started.

It came easily. I told Julie the whole thing, how I had never known her name, how I faked it thinking I'd figure it out until I boxed myself in and couldn't admit that I didn't. I told her because I lied, I always gave full attention to what she said to me so I wouldn't be caught. Because of that, I got to know her more deeply than I would have otherwise. And I really liked her. I knew in my heart that we were now true friends. "I hope you forgive me, Julie."

Of course, she did and thought it was all hilarious. "You goof! You could have told me!"

She forgave me; our friends forgive us things for which we do not forgive ourselves. It’s love. Now, when I don’t know someone’s name, I tell them. It’s not that hard. Because I forgive myself. Forgiveness is at the root of love.

Supermarket Trauma #124

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