September 25, 2022: Headaches -

There was a moment on the choir tour when I got very snippy. The choir was migrating from the crypt, where we rehearsed, up to the quire, where we sang services.

(YES! Yes, the choir sings in the quire! Is that not the best thing ever?! Also, if you play Scrabble with me, you can play the word “quire,” and I will not argue.)

And right at that migration-upstairs moment, one of our handsome young choir rock stars came up to me and said, “Ma’am, would you have any ibuprofen?”

(Pause.)

I have told this story half a dozen times now, and each time, I stop here, and the other person gets it. They frown and  say something like, “As if you were a stranger?” or “Not even facial recognition?”

I am wildly gratified that other people get it right away, because it makes me feel like my getting snippy wasn’t totally uncalled for.  Unlike some, I don’t mind Ma’am from strangers, nor from checkers,  salespeople, or the occasional Boy Scout. I am solidly into my Ma’am years, and proud of it. It wasn’t Ma’am that I minded – it was Ma’am from someone who saw me every day.  (If this makes no sense to you, that just means the first six people I told the story to were not randomly chosen.)

I didn’t really expect him to know my name. There was no reason he should. But this felt like I was invisible. “Hi” would have been fine. (In his defense: he felt crummy; he needed an ibuprofen; we never wear name tags or have mixers or anything that suggests learning each others’ names is part of the drill; we were masked; and there were a slew of white-haired altos on the tour, some of whom look much like me. He just picked the snippy white-haired alto, poor kid.)

Anyway, I rummaged (of course I had ibuprofen – I am also solidly in the ibuprofen years) and handed him the little bottle, but I glared at him and said, “My NAME is CELIA.”

Nor did I shake it off! The next day, still in a snit, I went to Boots, bought a packet of ibuprofen, and gave it to him at rehearsal. He said thanks, and I said, “You’re welcome, what’s my NAME?” He tried to remember, but I jumped in and said, “It’s CELIA.”

In other words, I was a dick, and we didn’t make a lot of eye contact for a bit.

We are fine now, though, because on the last day of the tour I told him I knew I’d been a dick, and I tried to explain why, and whether or not he understood, he appears to have forgiven me, and we’re good.

Today’s sermon just happened to be about the power of learning other people’s names, and using those names, acknowledging others instead of ignoring them, and in the middle, the priest asked us to learn the name of someone nearby, and I went straight to a soprano whose name I forgot a while back, and I said, I FORGOT, TELL ME AGAIN.  And then at halftime (okay, the Welcome), we were urged to learn ANOTHER name, so I met two kiddos who just joined. It was great! And then, when I sat down, I caught the rock star’s eye, and he gave me a nod and a grin, and I thought Wow, we might even have a private joke now.

Or perhaps it’s not private. I am told that the men’s robing room is a hotbed of gossip, so it’s possible my snippy fame precedes me. Which would be fine. One of the other handsome young rock stars beamed at me as he was leaving. I don't know why. But I’ll take it.