Pyle, right?

I walked into the pharmacy at work today. The clerk looked up at me and then headed back to the bins if filled prescriptions. “Pyle, right?”

“Uh…yeah,” I answered. “how did you know that?” I couldn’t help myself. My drug shouldn’t have been memorable. I wasn’t a frequent flyer. I’d never even thrown a Libby-fit in here. How did she know my name?

“You taught my class on my first day. You had in bright red boots. I remember those boots. And I remember that you helped me when my computer didn’t work,” she shrugged like it was no big deal.

We finished our transaction. I turned to go but then whipped back around. “You just made my day,” she looked confused. “you remembering me name and my boots. You really just made my day. Thank you.”

And it did-make my day. I hadn’t been having that grand a day. I’d been immersed in lines and lines and lines if data. I’d been unable to successfully answer questions. I’d let a silly little friend snub hurt my feelings. The highs of my little ones award winning weekend was fading. I was sort if drifting having let go of the final pieces of the tasks that made me who I was professionally to someone I didn’t trust to do it right. I was a little sad, a lot worried and generally off center.

“Pyle, right?”

Being remembered-whether it was for red boots, being welcoming on a first day of work or for being a helper-no matter why I was remembered it just felt really, really good to have be memorable.

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