I readily admit to name dyslexia, particularly when two names are so close phonetically. If your name is Brendan, there’s a strong chance I’ll call you Brandon a whole mess of times and vice versa. Even if we’ve known each other for years. Just ask my friends Brandon and Brendan; both of whom slightly hate me.
It’s embarrassing enough to continuously screw up a male friend’s name, but do it to a girl you’ve been on a few dates with, maybe even shared a bed a few times, and it’s ghastly mortifying for both of you. There’s always a pause, as she looks up from her plate or glass, wondering if she just heard me properly. I blush, my face going warm with panic at having done this again. She tilts her head to the side, either positioning one ear closer to me or just sternly staring to let me know there’s a lot riding on the answer to her next question. Then her lips move, but I already know what’s going to emerge.
“Did you just call me the wrong name?”
Her words always hang in the air for a split second too long and, before I can offer a less-than-acceptable response, her faces reads plain as day: “You did. You totally don’t know my name.” It’s truly a moment where I’d welcome cramming a Snicker’s bar in my mouth. In fact, I’ve actually shoveled a mouthful of food in while a girl asks the question, merely so I can look up, cheeks puffed, signaling that I’m going to need a moment to speak clearly.
Past responses to this crucial query have included: mumbling what I believe her name to be until she says, “Are you saying [correct name here]” and I can agree, quipping “Yes. I thought we should change your name. Just for tonight.”; meekly offering a “No…?”; and finally, changing the topic entirely after dismissively calling her nuts for suggesting I don’t know her name. None are remotely effective methods. Any girl with half a brain sees straight through each line.
But I’m genuinely at a loss here. This unwelcome phenomenon happens far more than I’d like it to. I’ll mistake a Shana for a Shauna, an Adriana for an Andriana, a Joann for a Joanna. But the worst are when it’s spelled the same but pronounced different, as in the case of Jada (Jay-duh) and Jada (Jah-da). There, I’m hopelessly lost. In lieu of names – and in an effort to curb my mind’s penchant for completely misfiring when I need it most – I’ve taken to using nicknames such as Little One or Peanut, if the girl is petite, and a host of others like Legs if she’s tall. If I’m at a total loss, “Hey you,” cooed in a gentle voice sometimes suffices.
Some friends have suggested I can’t get a name right if I don’t care enough about the girl, but that’s not true. I’ve dated girls for months and still had this issue, despite genuinely caring about them. And it crosses over from my romantic life to my professional one, as there have been plenty of girls I’ve worked with – closely - and still messed up on a weekly basis. While I work on sorting out how to rectify this issue, to all the women of the world bearing those names I listed above, I preemptively apologize, should one day we meet. Perhaps wear a nametag (with a pronunciation key) and we’ll both hope for the best.
