"Face? What Face?" – A Short Tragedy in Many Acts

Let me start by saying: Thank you for your support. Thank you for being here and reading my blog. I love that we cross paths in this magical life and share moments — some deep, some fleeting, some hilarious.

But there is one thing about me that you might think (if you know me personally), that it is not possible:

I. Don’t. Remember. Your. Face.

Yes, you read that right. If we bumped into each other today at the supermarket, and you greeted me with a big, toothy “Heeey Tina!” while holding a cucumber and oat milk, there is a 98% chance I will stare at you with a friendly-but-dead-inside expression while my brain screams:

“Who are you? WHO SENT YOU??”

It doesn’t matter if we’ve worked together for five years, or you live three doors down, or we shared an kayak during a thunderstorm in 2023 — your face, outside of our assigned setting, is just gone.

I have safe faces I remember: my close family, close friends, my boss (for financial reasons), my reflection, and Patrick Swayze, for emotional support.

The worst part? You all remember me.

You remember my name, my allergy to needles (panic attack when blood test), and that one time I crashed my car because I was singing. You shout, “Tinaaa! How’s your car?” in the middle of IKEA and I'm standing there holding a meatball in despair thinking, “Is this the dentist? The postman? Did I marry this person by accident?”

It happens constantly. I smile, I nod, I fake it like an Oscar-nominated actress, and then later I pull my husband aside like a secret agent and whisper, “Babe… who was that?”

Bless this man. Without flinching, he just replies, “Oh, that was Darek. From the kayaking trip. The one who brought 5 types of sausages and forgot the phone charger.”

Expedition organizer.

Do I have face blindness? Maybe. Do I have a distracted goldfish brain that only stores people by emotional chaos or very specific scents? Also yes.

I don’t know how some of you remember entire family trees, what shoes someone wore to a wedding 8 years ago, and the name of their dog’s groomer. Meanwhile, I’m here like: “Does this human live in our building? Or were they the waiter at that Italian place?”

My neighbors? Six years in the same building. Do I know who’s who?

Only by dog breed. “Oh, that’s the maltese owner.” “Ah yes, the lady with the Chihuahua that wears sweaters.”

Their names? No idea. Their faces? Only if they were printed on my Amazon parcel.

It’s not personal. I promise. You could be the kindest soul I’ve ever met — heck, maybe you saved me from choking on an water once — and I still might blink at you like I’m buffering in real life.

To make it worse, when someone does say hi, and I have no idea who they are, I go straight into improv mode:

“Ooooh hiii! Wow, long time! How are you?”

(Translation in my brain: WHO. ARE. YOU.)

I listen carefully, hoping you drop some hint, like a name or a mutual friend or a reference to that kayaking trip (thank you Darek, savior of awkward social encounters).

I even try strategies. I rehearse names. I study photos. I make secret notes in my phone like “Martha = curly red hair + laughs like a goose.”

But the next time I see Martha, she’ll have straightened her hair, and adopted a cat, and I’ll be lost again.

One day, I swear I’ll accidentally ignore someone important, like the person who was my driving instructor or my old therapist. It’s not rudeness. It’s a neurological comedy show up in here.

So please, friends, acquaintances, neighbours, Darek — if I don’t recognize you instantly, know that it’s not because you’re forgettable. It’s because my brain organizes people like IKEA flat-pack furniture: out of order, missing screws, and no idea where the manual went.

I don’t always know who you are.

And if you ever see me standing in a shop, blinking at you like a confused pigeon, just shout, “TINA! KAYAK! SAUSAGE!”

That might help.

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