I Think I’ve Found my Soulmate, But Unfortunately Have Forgotten His Name.

I’m terrible with names.

I once had a roommate (who shall, ironically, remain anonymous) whose name I did not know how to properly pronounce until the day she moved out.  I think it’s the result of some weird hybrid combination of my truly horrific memory and terrible anxiety.  I forget the name immediately following the introduction then as time goes on I feel absolutely ridiculous for having forgotten the name and become so fearful of mockery that I refuse to ask for the name to be repeated.

Now, as you can imagine, my memory becomes even more diminished when I’ve had a drink or two.

Which has led to more than a few awkward, occasionally tragic, moments.

For example:

Once upon a time I spent the night with a delightful Irish lad.  An absolute charmer, he had me mesmerized from the very moment we locked eyes from across the (sweaty, sticky) dance floor.  And while that might not be 100% accurate (OK, you caught me – I definitely rebuffed his initial advances towards me), the night did indeed end with me falling for him. I mean, he was everything I (hypothetically) desire in a man.  Irish citizen (EU passport anyone?) ginger haired (think of the beautiful curly-haired ginger children!) and a landowner with a university degree to boot.  Have you any idea how rare it is to find someone who meets all of your (slightly delusional) requirements?!

It was a first for me.

Clearly it was fate (and who am I to tempt fate?!) so within an hour of our meeting I found myself being thoroughly kissed on his living room couch.  What can I say, I’m truly a sucker for a good Irish accent.

Now, I’ve had my fair share of mundane, lackluster one-night-stands but PRAISE THE HEAVENS, this was anything but.  For fear of traumatizing my father (who I’m told reads my blog diligently) I’ll leave out the more…racy details but, well, let’s just say that after a very…enjoyable…few hours of vigorous cardio activity we collapsed onto his bed, limbs intertwined, completely exhausted and utterly sated.  I was even convinced to stay the night.  And I don’t stay the night.  Ever.  I once famously snuck out of a mans house only to realize halfway down the block that I had forgotten an item of clothing on his bedroom floor.  I proceeded to sneak back in, grab the item, steal an apple (girls gotta eat) and sneak back out – ALL WITHOUT HIM STIRRING.  One of my proudest moments.

I woke up the next morning (a few hours later) vaguely shocked, yet only mildly horrified (surely a good sign!) to find myself wrapped up in the loveliest of embraces.  I mean, he was stroking his freaking hand up and down my back while gazing adoringly at me…I thought mornings such as these existed solely in sickeningly sweet romantic movies!  We spent a few additional lazy hours enjoying each others company (and various talents) before my fear of emotional attachment reared its head and I finally declared it time to head home.  Being the gentleman he was (and most likely still remains), he drove me home.  The whole 8 blocks.  I mean come on…it was most definitely fate.  Before I could make my hasty retreat from his car, he was insistent on insuring that I would contact him. I pinky-promised (WHY am I so awkwardly weird?!) to add him on Facebook and graced him with one final lingering kiss before scurrying off into the morning, cautiously optimistic that I had found my one true love and soul mate.

Now, any normal person with a fully-functional memory would’ve had no problem upholding this promise.  I of course, forgot his name the second he drove off.

I spent HOURS scouring Facebook to no avail.  My Irishman was lost to me forever.

The moral of the story?  Always have your (carefully selected) partner for the night save their contact details in your phone before departure – never trust your own mind to do the remembering.  Never!

So for any future potential suitors I leave you with this:

If I call you by the correct name on the second date, you’ve got a real shot of making it to a third.

And to the Irishman with the house on 31st and the sinfully talented tongue (sorry Papa!) – here’s hoping our paths are fated to cross again.



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