You know that old Nat King Cole song “Unforgettable”? Great song. Beautiful melody, wonderfully romantic lyrics. It’s fantastic, and I love it.
I was thinking about it the other night, and I came to the conclusion that I am the opposite of that song; I’m forgettable. I’m not saying that to try to garner your pity or something. It’s just the way it is. Some people are forgettable, and I’m one of them.
It’s one of those crazy things that I ponder while I’m up at 3 a.m. to nurse The Red-Haired Girl. The house is quiet and peaceful. There’s a sweet smelling warm little baby in my arms. I sit back and relax……..and random things pop into my head.
Now The Hunk is probably going to have a problem with this post. He never likes when his wife is even a teeny bit down on herself. But like I said, honey, I’m really not cutting myself down.
People rarely remember me, though I with my visual memory ALWAYS remember a face. Even if I only met you once for 5 minutes while we shared a line at the grocery store. I will recognize you the next time I see you. I just have one of those memories. But people rarely remember me. There’s nothing remarkable about my appearance. Except maybe the red hair, but even that doesn’t really set me apart so much. I’m not ugly, though I’m not drop dead gorgeous. I’m just a normal every day sort of girl.
I’m quiet. Really quiet. The old folks have to turn up their hearing aids quiet. I don’t know why I’m so quiet, maybe because my parents were always so loud? I always joke that I should sing all the time because yea, I’m a projective singer.
I am not a great conversationalist. Unless I’ve known you for awhile. I’m not the type who can converse easily with strangers, or acquaintances. I am happy to sit and listen to others chat and talk, interjecting once in a while. I’m slow to speak. I think long and hard about things before I say them. Which makes it rather difficult to talk to me, I’m sure. Usually by the time I’ve gathered my thoughts into what I want to say the conversation is long over.
I don’t wear trendy clothes, or drive a cool car. I don’t have money, or connections. I have a common name. I’m always getting mistaken for a Jennifer.
The only memorable thing about me are my super cute babies. That’s the thing people remember. Not me, but my kids.
I’m okay with it though. I don’t need people to remember me. I may want them to for my own self image or whatever on a particularily bad day. I have the same vain urges that any woman does of wanting to be admired or noticed. Most days I don’t give a flying flip what people think about me.
Most days, but sometimes at 3 a.m. when the house is quiet and I am left alone with my thoughts….
I wonder what if I were outgoing, and loud and easy to talk to? What if I were drop dead gorgeous and able to turn every head? What if my name was something unique like Pepper or Reese? If I were rich and famous? Or if I could just have an interesting conversation with a complete stranger? Or talk on the phone without stumbling through my words? What if I could converse as easily as I write?
Then a little hand reaches up and touches my face. As I’m jarred out of my reveries I look down into the sweet milk-soaked smile of my baby girl. As I watch her slowly drift off to sleep all those what-ifs drift far far away.
I don’t need any of those things. I have every thing I ever wanted. A good home, a loving husband. Some great kids. Family and friends who love me, though I don’t know why.
I’m happy. Would I be happy if I were all those “unforgettable” things? Possibly. But I wouldn’t want to trade my life now to find out.
I’m forgettable. That’s what I am.
And I wouldn’t change a thing.