Everyone's Name Is "Chris" Now

So yes, I’m getting older. I don’t love admitting it, but here we are. The mirror is honest, my joints are chatty, and my memory... well, it’s apparently on an extended vacation. One of the most annoying signs of this whole aging situation is my increasingly spotty ability to remember names—especially the names of people I actually like.

Take my water exercise class, for example. It’s a delightful pool of mostly women (pun absolutely intended) all around my age, and I genuinely enjoy getting to know them. They’re friendly, supportive, and impressively buoyant. But despite how much I appreciate them, my brain has decided that remembering 50 names is a big, fat “nope.”

Now, on any given day, only about 25 people show up. Which sounds manageable, right? You’d think. And yet, I have still managed to call at least three people by the wrong name in a single class. One of them corrected me gently. Another looked confused. And one just rolled with it—probably because she couldn’t remember my name either.

I’ve tried everything. I’ve done the old memory association trick—linking names to features. Like Robin, who I remembered because she’s graceful and cheerful, just like the bird. But then I made the mistake of thinking about the "red breast" part, and, well... now I just feel weird every time I see her in a swimsuit.

Sorry, Robin.

Desperate times call for desperate strategies, so I started calling everyone “Chris.” Turns out that was a pretty good move! Roughly a quarter of the class actually is named Chris. I don’t know what happened in the 1950s, but clearly there was a baby-naming trend and the winner was “Chris.” There are a couple of guys in the class and they don’t even seem to mind being called “Chris”. I’m tempted to just keep going with it and hope no one notices.

So, if you're in my class and I greet you with the wrong name, please forgive me. It’s not personal. I know who you are—I remember your laugh, your killer “rocking horse”, your unmatched ability to make pool noodles look cool. I just can’t always match those things with the correct name. My brain is like a sock drawer after laundry day: everything’s familiar, but nothing matches up.

I’ve finally accepted it. I am, in fact, a senior citizen. My memory is no longer a steel trap. It’s more like a colander—stuff leaks out. But I’m still here, still splashing around, still trying to get it right. And hey, if I call you “Chris,” just smile and wave. There’s a 25% chance I nailed it.