I’m sure I know you, I think to myself. I know how I know you too, and probably a lot of weird, unnecessary details about your life (thanks Facebook). But, no, I don’t know your name. Sorry.

I try my hardest to learn names. I repeat them back into the conversation so you know I know them. I repeat them in my head, and sometimes even come up with ridiculous mnemonic devices to remember them. But it is almost always to no avail.

I just started a new co-op job and there are dozens of people I’m supposed to know. A handy map showing where everyone sits that was left behind by previous co-op students has been my saving grace. I’m slowly learning names, but when someone calls on the phone and asks if so-and-so is at their desk, I’ll often blame my eyesight and ask the other co-op worker if they can see that person. On the phone, I write down the names of the people I’m talking to, just so I don’t forget them.

A great number of people exist in my mind not by their names, but by nicknames I’ve given them. For example, I know the advertising managers here at The News only by the names Nick Something and That Girl. The assistant photo editors are named Photo Two and Photo Three (Photo Two might be named Evan or Eric, but I’m not sure). And even worse, there’s one person who is really named Nathan, but I’ve somehow convinced myself his name is Nick and I don’t think I’ll be able to change that from my mental programming. Sorry about that Nick, err… Nathan.

I worked for four summers at a yacht club in my Connecticut hometown. There were some people I spoke to or encountered on a regular basis, but could not, for the life of me, remember their names. Instead I called them things like The Really Old Mean Lady Who Still Hasn’t Died Yet, The Man With The Bathing Suit That Is Much Too Small, The Only Asian Person At The Whole Club and Tennis Man Who Always Showed Up Right As I Was Supposed To Leave. Sure, these weren’t their real names, but they did tell a lot more about the person in question than any real name would do. Plus, Really Old Mean Lady Who Still Hasn’t Died Yet can be easily identified by anyone I’ve talked to, whereas Mrs. Gladys Wheeler (not her real name) could be any old lady there, and there were a lot of old ladies.

But here’s the thing: in all other ways, my memory is pretty great. I can tell you obscure details about my favorite television shows, books I’ve read, articles I’ve written. I remember the combination from my locker my freshmen year of high school (32-45-16), the first CD I ever owned (Middle of Nowhere by Hanson – don’t judge me) and the phone number for my favorite hometown pizza place (599-3000).

It’s really just people’s names that I can’t remember. I like to think that it is genetic, because my father and I share the same problem. I’ve developed some of my best name-avoiding techniques from him, and I can go through whole conversations without using a single name.

The worst part, though, about not knowing names is that there’s a point where you just can’t ask a person his or her name anymore. As I’m nearing three weeks at my co-op job, that line is fast approaching. Uh-oh.

So the next time I see you, you might want to drop your own name into the conversation. I know it’s my responsibility to know, but I’m failing at my end. So you’re going to have to pick up the slack.

– Matt Collette is a middler journalism major and member of The News staff.