“Amy;” That was her name.
Thin, 5’7. Long black hair. Amy is in her forties—A pretty face with a cute smile.
I was out shopping for ingredients to make homemade pizza dough.
I noticed a lady scoping me out.
When I looked at her, she looked away. Then, I could see her looking back at me out of my peripheral. She was getting closer.
“She wants to Pray for me,” I thought to myself.
That is a real thing in my life. Complete strangers have walked up to me and asked if they could Pray for me. Yes. It happens.
They usually say, “Excuse me, I feel in my heart that I need to Pray for you. Do you mind?” It happens once or twice a year.
So, I figured she was making her way over to ask if she could Pray for me.
I was wrong, though.
She paces up to me.
“Excuse me; you look so familiar to me. Do I know you?”
I rattle off the cities and states I’ve lived in.
“No, it’s from TV. Or a movie. An actor. I can’t think of his name right now.”
“Oh, that guy. Yes. You’re not the first to tell me I look like some actor. No one can ever remember his name, though. I’m not him, though.”
She looks at me in disbelief. Like I’m him but “incognito.”
“I promise, I’m not him. Can you remember his name or anything about him?”
“I can’t remember his name at all. You look just like him, though.”
“Maybe I can get a job as his double. Or as an impersonator or “Tribute Artist.”
“Ha! You could be his stunt double!”
“What can you tell me about this mysterious actor?”
“I’m sure he plays a mobster.”
“Oh wow! Mobsters have nicknames. I wonder what mine would be…”
She leans in and whispers, “Are you really him? I won’t say anything.”
“I’m not. I’m sorry. I’m telling the truth. I promise.”
“Well, okay. I’m Amy.”
I put my hand out to shake hers and say, “I’m Lynn. L-Y-N-N. Lynn. Nice to meet you.”
“So very nice to meet you as well.”
“I’m here all the time. I’ll be here for another half hour, so if you think of this guy’s name, find me and tell me, please. I’d really like to know.”
I pushed my buggy to walk away when I stopped.
“Hey, Amy, you know how to make pizza dough?”
“Yeah, it can be a lot of work.”
“Do you let it sit in the fridge overnight?”
“You can. Some do, but I can’t remember everything you have to do. At least not at the moment.”
I think to myself, “She’s star-struck and thinks I’m some TV or movie actor.”
“It’s okay. Thank you. I’m here often. Find me if you remember the actor’s name. Or to say ‘Hey.'”
One side of me says, “You should get her number.”
The other side knows I have Spina Bifida and can’t even make love.
That’s the side that wins.
“It always ends badly, Lynn.”
I pay for my merchandise and leave.
