The reason I don’t know your names after all this time isn’t because I don’t really give a shit what your names are, it’s because I … well, no, actually, that is the reason

In my mind, you all look like this

In my mind, you all look like this

Dear Co-workers Whose Names I Still Do Not Know,

Allow me to apologize. After almost three years of working here, you would think I would know what to call at least half of you … and the fact that I don’t makes me feel bad. Sort of.

OK, perhaps “bad” is too strong a word … but I do, at the very least, feel mildly uncomfortable when one of you greets me by name and I, in return, can only do that “Hey, how’s it going [mumbly sound that may or may not share some phonetic resemblance to your actual name]?” thing.

I do not have a socially acceptable excuse for my behavior, so I shall instead be brutally honest with you: I didn’t plan on being here this long … and since I wasn’t planning on staying, I sure as hell didn’t care to clutter my brain with a bunch of names that would be obsolete in what I was sure would be no time at all. (I know that makes me sound like a delusional, self-centered dick, but in my defense, I only said it because I’m a delusional, self-centered dick. It’s not my fault, is what I’m saying; I can’t help it.)

And, yeah, I suppose I could finally confess to you that I don’t know what your name is and ask you to share it with me again … but, in addition to being excruciatingly awkward, it also would be a waste of time … because I’m not going to be here much longer. At least, that’s what I’m still telling myself.

If it makes you feel any better, I also have not committed to memory the names of the random parents who, simply because my children participate in the same sports leagues as their children, have become semi-regular fixtures in my life. Don’t believe me? Here’s an email I recently sent to one of the other dads after attending my son’s basketball game:

SUBJECT: Hey, you know what’s really embarrassing?

BODY: Calling your friend’s wife “Barbara” even though you’ve met her several times and have repeatedly been told her name is “Paulette” (to include roughly two minutes prior to calling her “Barbara” … loudly … more than once … in front of people).

It sucks being senile at 43. Thanks for making the save, but I’ve been having such massive and sustained douche chills since that moment that I just had to say something. I’m assuming she noticed, in which case: Please pass along my apology. Inexcusable.

So you see? It’s not just you. It’s everyone. (And, yes, I know the apology I wrote to him seems far more heartfelt and meaningful than the one I’ve offered you here … but that’s only because I’m going to have to see Barbara Paulette repeatedly over the course of the next decade … whereas you all soon will be completely erased from my mind, much like this job itself. I hope.)

(Please, God, make it stop.)

Sincerely Callously Yours,

-Jon

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