As we approached the Doobies’ school, a cute little blonde girl came bounding out of the front doors.
Her smile lit up when she saw Madan. “HI MADAN!” she cheerfully waved and kept bouncing on by, holding her Dad’s hand.
“Who was that?” I asked my son.
“I don’t know.”
“For real?” I’ve been through this countless times before with Madan. “Well, is she in your class?”
“Um, I think so. But, I don’t know her name”
“Dude. You’ve been in school for more than 50 days now. You’ve spent nearly 350 hours with this person. You really have no idea who she is?”
A dinner, I shared this account with Mike — someone who can only remember a name if it’s the same as his.
“He’s got your genes, Mike.” The boys exchanged knowing glances. I continued, “Madan, this might not mean much to you now, but if a cute blonde greets you with a smile and knows your name, it’s a good idea to reciprocate.”
“Noooooooooo!” Mike countered, “Madan, you’ve got to play hard to get. Don’t remember their names and they’ll come running after you. Trust me.”
“Really? Well, if that’s true, our son’s every step will resemble a Beatles concert.”
“I’m not going to remember their names.” Madan promised his Dad.
“That’s my boy.” Mike praised his son.
I’m sure Mike’s fatherly advice is going to bite my son in the ass come senior year. I never went to my high school prom, but have a feeling I’ll be going to my son’s.