nametags

So after a 20 minute long debate with myself in bed I threw on some clothes and went to the Men's Breakfast at church this morning. I was ten minutes late and found that I was wearing black socks, but the food was warm and I met some new people.

A men's breakfast potluck is not a good place to meet girls. Fortunately, I am happily married and this is not an issue for me. It is a good place, however, to learn who's wife is a good cook.

It's also a quick study in the sociology of nametags. In my several years of attending gatherings of well-meaning friends, strangers and people you're too ashamed to ask their names again I have come to see the benefits of having everybody wear nametags. If nothing else it's an opportunity to passively introduce yourself to people in the supermarket when you forget to remove the nametag after the meeting.

I sometimes wonder if wearing nametags is a secret penmanship contest and one of two of the guys in the group are mentally ticking off who's crossed their t's and dotted their i's, who has smudged a little on the last letter and who has drawn the most perfectly round o.

Things got more complicated at this particular men's breakfast when the discussion leader picked out twelve guys to give us a picture of what the twelve apostles would look like. This was all fine and good except that for the rest of the meeting I didn't know whether this one guy's name was Dennis or Simon Peter. And imagine my chagrin when the clerk at Save Mart pointed out, "You must have been made fun of as a kid, Mr. Simon the Zealot."

At least I didn't have to be Judas. Even in the post-Christian world this name continues to be unpopular. And plus, nobody wants to kiss you. Which would not have been a problem this morning, as we have already established that there were no girls at the breakfast this morning.