MY NAME IS “BOB”

. . . SOMETIMES

Now listen, my name isn’t really Bob. But sometimes... it is.

BOB is my go-to when I just don’t feel like being me. You’ve done it too. Don’t lie. Somebody asks your name and instead of telling the truth, your brain just goes, “Say Bob. It’s simple. Safe. One syllable and no follow-up questions.”

Bob doesn’t need to spell it. Bob doesn’t need to explain it. Bob can vanish like smoke off a hot skillet.

And every now and then... Bob shows up just to stir the pot.

So, not too long ago I got invited to this fancy charity shindig. One of those black tie, high hopes, pass-the-auction-paddle kind of nights.

I wasn’t sure if it would be boring or tolerable, but I knew two things:

1. My fun friends were going.

2. The bar was an open bar. (That’s what we in the South call a blessing.)

Dinner? Can’t tell you a thing about it.
The charity? I donated my charm and moved on.
But the bar? Oh, the bar was working overtime.

Toward the end of the evening, I found myself in this long reception line where it felt like we were all auditioning for polite society. I’m shaking hands, doing my best bless your heart smile, when I run into a guy wearing that I-know-you-from-somewhere face.

He does know me. Sorta. We work for the same company, but let’s just say I wouldn’t stop if I saw him broken down on the side of the road unless he was holding barbecue from Harold’s – unlikely since they aren’t in business anymore.

He squints hard, like he’s trying to solve a Sudoku, and says, “Wait a second… I know you. We’ve met — right? What’s your name again?”

I grin, shake his hand, and say, “It’s Bob. Nice to see you again.”

Just like that – Bob took the wheel.

Everyone standing there — friends, coworkers, partners in crime — knew damn well my name is not Bob. But none of ‘em said a word. Not one.

One stifled a giggle and walked away. The rest just stood there, hiding grins, watching the train leave the tracks and helpless to stop it.

Come on now — it wasn’t really meanness — just a little ol’ fashioned Southern mischief. Like putting a For Sale sign in your buddy’s front yard and waiting to see how many folks knock on his door.

Anyway, the poor guy kept calling me Bob for days before someone broke the news.

We all had a good laugh. My phone lit up with texts like:

“Hey Bob, lunch today?”
“Bob, HRs lookin’ for you.”
“Drinks tonight, Bob?”

The cherry on top? My Best Day Ever friend had me a shirt made — because of course she did.

Big letters, impossible to miss. It says:

Just Bob Doing Bob Things

I wear it proudly — on days that call for less sense, more fun, and enough Bob to get by.

That’s The Condition—own who you are, or at least whoever you say you are.

If this made you grin, hit the ❤️, share it with your favorite troublemaker, and tell me—what’s your “Bob” name?