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Sometimes I wish everybody wore name tags in public.
In large print, of course.

That way, if I couldn’t recognize the face at least I could see the identity.
Come to think of it, perhaps a short bio under the name would help. “Hi, I’m John Smith and I’m the one who made life miserable for you in the third grade.”
Why is it that friends I haven’t seen in years have morphed into aliens? The guy in high school with the face of a chihuahua now resembles a bloodhound.
Is it beyond comprehension that 50 years and 50 pounds later, chances are a former classmate might have a difficult time picking you out of a lineup? The bald-headed man with the big belly who just hailed me with a slap on the back isn’t the same skinny, pimple-faced, pompadoured, Don Juan wannabe from general science.
It’s just not fair when a complete stranger comes up to me and calls me by name. I then have to decide to either admit my ignorance or make like I’m tickled pink to see him.
I can either let him know he’s not the man he used to be by telling him I have no idea to whom I’m speaking, or risk making a fool of myself when he sees through my charade.
Then there are the people I see whose faces are familiar but I can’t place who they are. Usually, that’s because I’m seeing them out of context, on the street rather than in the venue where my mind has filed them away, such as at the Department of Motor Vehicles.
“I know that face like the back of my hand, but I don’t for the life of me remember where I’ve seen it.”
It doesn’t help that my mind is getting older and the brain’s computer is slowing down. I know the files are there but it takes a lot longer for the hard drive to sort through them.
There’s the guy I dealt with at his garage a few months ago. We had some nice conversations about our lives and our families.
Then I see him again at a public function but his longish hair is now closely trimmed and he’s not wearing his coveralls. I might as well be blindfolded.
I appreciate it when somebody I knew back in the day comes up and helps me out. Years ago an old classmate spoke to me at a grocery store and said, “You probably don’t recognize me because I’ve put on weight and my hair is longer.”
Indeed, I didn’t recognize him but instantly knew who he was when he identified himself.
As for the name tags, they should be two-sided. Have you ever seen somebody — say a nurse — and you attempt to read the name but the tag is turned backward? They might as well wear a tag that says, “Guess what my name is.”
Speaking of nurses, any time I go to a medical office I’m asked to state my name and date of birth. I’ve considered having the info tattooed on my forehead.
A few weeks ago I attended a get-together with some of my high school classmates. We hadn’t met since before COVID so it was time to find out what had happened since the last reunion.
As soon as I walked into the room, a strange woman with white hair looked at me and asked, “Who are you?”
I looked at her and echoed, “Who are you?”
When both of us revealed our identities, it was like peeling away the years. We had met in first grade and spent 12 years in school together.
I must proudly announce that I saw her again recently and instantly knew who she was. We even hugged in recognition of all our shared memories.
Our faces and bodies may have changed but we’re still the same people inside our heads, I guess.
Ironically, I recently saw her cousin, a guy I didn’t recognize when he spoke my name. He laughed, saying I hadn’t known who he was a few years before either.
He wasn’t at our class reunion or maybe I would have recognized him. Or, maybe not.
Anyway, I’m going to recommend that at future class get-togethers we have name tags.
You know, just in case.

Larry Penkava is a writer for Randolph Hub. Contact: 336-302-2189, larrypenkava@gmail.com.