You Remind Me of Someone

When I was 10-ish, I can remember going to Hershey Park with some friends and family and standing in a long line for the flume ride. It was a hot, hot day and we were melting in line, breathless for our chance to get soaked. I was sitting on the railing - it was a permanent iron railing that corralled you into a serpentine queue - and just talking to my friends and watching the other ride-goers, when I felt a hand stroke my hair. It was a touch like a friend who wanted to play with your hair, to twist it into plaits. It was such a friendly touch that I vividly recall turning around to smile at the friend who I didn't realize was standing behind me in line. However, it wasn't a friend standing behind me in line; it was a total stranger. It was a woman, about a Young Mom's age, with this look of horror and embarrassment on her face. She stammered that she thought I was someone else and giggled nervously to her companions. I didn't think it odd at the time (nor, really, do I now): I have generic brown hair and while sitting on a railing it would've been hard to judge my true height. I could have been anyone, any age. Yet it is significant because it is my earliest memory of the Doppleganger Effect.

To my knowledge, none of my acquaintances ever mistake someone else for me. I am always mistaken for someone else. People smile broadly at me in the grocery store or wave at me on the golf course, until they step closer and realize their mistake. It's a little crushing, really, to be so warmly greeted and then, upon closer inspection, to be the source of so much social awkwardness. As I get older, however, this becomes an event of some hilarity: I have such poor name-recall that often I rely on the other party to make the distinction as to whether I am a stranger to him/her or I am just unable to recall our association.