At first I thought it was funny. Then, after awhile, a little bit insulting. Then after six years, when I realized I knew enough about Roxie's life story to pen her unauthorized biography, while she still couldn't summon my name ("Andy? Anna? Miranda?" It's AMANDA you crazy bitch!) I finally asked a friend if perhaps there was something wrong with Roxie.
"She definitely comes off as kind of stuck up," she said, rolling her eyes.
Kind of stuck up? Okay. I was thinking more along the lines of severely brain damaged. But why split hairs?
After seven years, though, I think we've finally made a breakthrough.
I was coming back from a run the other day, and Roxie was power walking toward me with a friend. As I approached, she met my gaze and smiled, a clear flicker of recognition on her face.
"Hi!" she said.
"Hey!" I replied.
And as I ran the final stretch home, my legs a little lighter, I proudly envisioned my small piece of real estate in Roxie's mental Rolodex.