The Nobel Prize should be awarded to the person responsible for the name tag.
While seated in a restaurant perusing the menu, a young woman approaches my table. "Hello! My name is Tammy and I'll be your server today. What can I get you to drink?"
I glance at her smiling face and then at her hands to determine if she paid attention to the sign posted over the sink in the Ladies. (You know the one I mean.) Lastly, my eyes travel to the name badge pinned to her crisp pink uniform just above her ta-ta's. It reads "Tami" ~ with an ‘i.’ I smile at her and say, "Thank you, Tami," and just like that we become BFFs.
Yesterday while dressing for Sunday services, I scrounged around and finally found my beat-up church name tag attached to a long black cord we call a lanyard in these modern days of ostentation. This particular name tag did not have the power to enhance my Sunday go-to-meeting garb but, for parishioners of a certain age (like me), name tags can be a blessing straight from God.
The fact that other people of a certain age stare at that particular area of my anatomy usually reserved for my husband Babe, doesn't offend me. They're not looking at my ta-ta's; they're just trying to see what's written on my name tag without having to use reading glasses.
Back in the day when smokers ruled the world, people collected matchbook covers and swizzle sticks. Today they're more apt to hoard advertising pens, ball caps, tee shirts and a myriad of other useless items. I lay claim to a drawer full of name tags brought back home through the years from writer's conferences, church suppers or services and a few cruises. I even have one from when Babe had his gall bladder removed. Why on earth they needed MY name when HE was the patient remains a mystery. I wondered if the hospital was under the misguided impression that I was there to donate my good gall bladder since Babe's looked like road kill.
I like name tags; they allow me to get up close and personal with someone who may not otherwise be significant to my well-being. An ordinary request, for example, employs a different nuance as soon as I call someone by name. Case in point: "Tami with an ‘i,’ please bring me a large pizza with pepperoni, sausage, hamburger, onions, black olives, green olives, peppers and mushrooms. And don't skimp on the cheese. I've been on a water diet and haven't eaten solid food for three days." Tami with an ‘i’ won't care that my stomach is scraping my backbone, but calling her by name insures that my pizza will arrive with a side order of breadsticks, not to mention Tami's pasted-on smile.
Today, we easily recognize the name tag's electronic version. We know it as Caller ID without which we would be forced to deal with robo calls and wrong numbers. The world as we know it would eventually change as phone etiquette became as obsolete as dial-up. Fortunately, we can look at the identity of the caller before deciding to let it go to voice mail. Otherwise, we could get stuck with a politician asking for our vote, or our boss declaring we have to work late or be fired. It might even be a mother-in-law, in which case it's a no-brainer. We all know it would go to voice mail even before the sound of the beep.
I am a slave to many things electronic: Spell check, answering machines, Kindle, and I'm becoming more dependent on them each day. In the past, I learned to spell; I made eye-contact when being introduced to someone, and I easily remembered whom I had met. I wonder if perhaps name tags and good manners might be hurtling down the same path as the dinosaur?
Maybe so.
But my brain cells are being seriously threatened, so I'm going to stick with name tags. I'll use Caller ID or Google only when I'm stumped, and unlike the dinosaur, I'll eventually adapt to our newer mode of communication.
Meanwhile, I'll rejoice that I can remember the woman's name seated next to me in church and not because I Googled her. She'll be wearing a name tag.
As for the would-be Nobel Prize Laureate, if only he had worn a name tag I could thank him for simplifying my life the old-fashioned way.