I left work an hour before my scheduled attendance of a Women of Rotary dinner tonight. I made my way to the Plaza hoping to find some Court-appropriate clothing.  I reckoned without the cacophony of my dislike of shopping with the Plaza’s dearth of suitable stores.

But I ventured into a storefront that seemed to have female clothing.  Within moments I realized that the clothing more suited a twenty-something than a sixty-something. But I wandered around looking at sweaters and jackets, trying to look hopeful, not wanting to just bolt.

As I slunk towards the door, a woman clerk approached me and engaged me in conversation.  We talked about shoes more extensively than I think I’ve done in years.  But that conversation dwindled and I continued my gravitation towards the street.

She followed me, though; and before I quite knew what was happening, we were talking about our children — mostly hers: an 8th grader; a senior in high school; and a freshman daughter at Creighton named “Katie”.

Finally, she introduced herself as “Amy” and held out her hand.  “Corinne,” I responded.  She squealed — literally squealed — “My daughter Katie’s middle name is ‘Corinne’!”  Then came the normal query — “One R or two?  One N or two?” And lo and behold, her Katie is Kathleen Corinne.

High five, sistah.  When I told her that my parents had originally chosen “Bridget Kathleen” for me, she beamed.  And hugged me.  Whoa.

A few minutes later, I found myself back on the street, then behind the wheel of the Prius.  I had heard that tell-tale incoming text noise while bonding with Katie’s mother and glanced at the phone.  A few text exchanges later, I read the message, Don’t give up on yourself.

No indeed.  No indeed.  I’m two degrees of separation from a freshman at Creighton and I have an accidental namesake, my friend Carla’s daughter Maria Korinna (Kori) in Fayetteville.  I’m practically immortal.  How could I possibly give up on myself?  How could I possibly complain?