Growing up in small town Iowa—or small town anywhere—you learn early on to perfect the purposefully vague yet friendly greeting. Maybe that’s why the Midwest has such a reputation for being heavily populated with gregarious, overly friendly residents. We’re terrified we are supposed to know who you are and your mother’s maiden name and even more scared that we will offend you if we’ve forgotten. In Iowa, it is better to smile and greet everyone like a long lost cousin, just to be on the safe side.
I just came from our local grocery store where I was checked out by someone I know was a year ahead of me in high school. And middle school. And those wonderful years from kindergarten through sixth grade. I know his name. I know who he married and how many years ago. I know what he drove when he turned sixteen. I know that he has a record of petty crimes leftover from those years right after high school. (There were under 400 people in my entire high school. I could name them all.) But I had no idea if he would recognize me. So I left my greeting generic but friendly enough should he decide to acknowledge our connection, if he even remembered me.
It’s at times like this, when you’re standing in line to pay for ground beef, bananas and beer, that small town life gets awkward. I don’t recall ever talking to this guy when we were in school together. Although I’m sure we were at the same parties from time to time, our lives just didn’t intersect. We took different classes and had different friends. We lived our lives parallel to one another without question. It’s the same way with the girl from the floral shop I use for deliveries at work, the waitress at any number of local restaurants, the guy who came to fix our wireless network at work, the list goes on. But I always feel this urge to start up a conversation, just so they know that hey! it’s Jess, we went to school together! I rarely do. I’m terrified they won’t remember and that I’ll look like this stalker girl who sits looking at her yearbook each night surrounded by my five cats. I don’t. Yet.
I figured when he rang up my 12-pack of Bud Light without asking for my ID he knew exactly who I was. And then I felt rude. I don’t know why, I smiled at him, said hi, asked how he was, totally acceptable exchange with a simple acquaintance, right? Friendly without being creepy, I think. But I guess I needed him to know I knew who he was so he wouldn’t think I was a bitch. I spend a lot of time trying to correct my high school legacy of bitchiness. Next time I’ll greet him by name.