Three strikes, you’re out!

I dated a drummer very briefly in high school.

His name was Joe and I was so ENAMORED of him.

He had big biceps and drove an old truck.

And he was quite the Italian Stallion.

We had exactly ONE DATE in the real world.

He showed up 30 minutes late because he got lost.

He took me out – I don’t remember what we did – and then he brought me home.

And THAT is when it happened.

He kissed me goodnight through his car window.

When we were done kissing he said, “Goodnight Lisa. . . I mean Melissa. . . I mean Michelle.”

My heart sank like a rock.

Strike one, strike two, strike three, I’m out.

Now, I’ve had 30 odd years to ponder this moment.

At the time I remember being crushed that he couldn’t remember my name.

Not even on his second attempt.

But upon reflection I’ve decided that my kissing skills are SO SUPERIOR that I KISSED HIM SENSELESS and he couldn’t recall my name because his brain was all doped up on a HUGE dose of oxytocin, courtesy of me.

That a much more preferable explanation.

Still, he’s the only man to forget my name.

And I will remember him FOREVER because of it.