Busted

Spent most of the week laying on the couch, watching British comfort tv. My doctor was mad at me for doing sit-ups and then calling to ask why my insides were hurting again, so I was being a good little invalid and staying horizontal, with a hot compress on my face because all that crying in the ER had freaked out my desiccated eyeball ducts.

But Saturday was showtime. The library was celebrating its 95th anniversary, with a band, cupcakes, ice cream, speeches from local politicians, and a big storytime with sing-alongs and a craft activity, performed by the children’s librarian. Who is me. So I had to be there, messed up eyeballs and all.

Just one thing went wrong.

Eight years ago, when I was first introduced to our local senator, his wife thought my name was “Heather”, and it took me two years to notice. By year five, it was too late to correct her, and by year seven I was actively trying to prevent her from finding out the truth. Yesterday, I walked in and there it was: my name on the program; a seat with my name printed on it next to the senator; and an introduction on the loud speaker in front of a hundred people. As I was making my brief speech, I made eye contact with the senator’s wife in the crowd.

Oh no, you guys. 

Ducked out afterwards and led 30 preschoolers in clapping songs until the formalities wrapped up and the important people left.

I could always change my name to Heather before she picks up her next book holds.