I don't really like my name. No, that's not true. I like its components. “Marjorie” was a crap name growing up, because it made me different, and we all know how the other kids treat the different kid. I think I read somewhere that giving your kid an unusual name increases his or her risk of mental illness. Thanks, Mom & Dad.
Now that I'm grown, I like being different. At some point in my life, everything turned around on me. I started liking my name, just like I started liking sleep. They say that's a sign of adulthood, when you like sleep.
|This guy is very mature. -- DavidDennisPhotos.com.|
For those of you who don't know, my middle name is “Marie.” Now, that's not so bad, as middle names go. It could be Bertha, Hortense, or Myrtle. It could be Prunella, for heaven's sake. I could be Marjorie Prunella McAtee.
But, if it were, I wouldn't have this going on with my initials: MMM. Mmm. Mmmm. Mmmmmm.
|Mmmmmmmmmmm. -- JoChoo|
|Yeah, like this. -- inhisgrace|
Now, say it ten times fast.
My parents didn't put much thought into this name of mine. I asked my mother about it once. She told me that both she and my dad liked “Marie” as a middle name, but couldn't agree on a first name. I like to imagine the following conversation taking place in the delivery room, immediately following my birth:
My father: “How about Prunella?”
My mother: “No.”
“How about Mary? I've always liked the name Mary.”
My mother (probably) shook her head. “No, cause then she'd be Mary Marie, and that's just Mary Mary. Besides, I already have a sister Mary and an Aunt Mary.”
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Enid? Minerva? Fanny?”
They must have continued in this vein for some time, until my frustrated mother finally turned to the attending nurse. “What's your name?” she asked.
“Marjorie,” the nurse replied.
And there you have it.