Nope, My Name's Not Naturalizer

That's my name, don't wear it out. Actually, go ahead, wear it out. Because the thing is, my name is so unusual, the chances of it being worn out from people saying it and hearing it too much are slim. It's more unusual than Calista, or Tallulah. Then again, it's less unusual than Kal-el or Pilot Inspektor. There was a time when this difference of mine made me kind of glum. I knew early on that my name would never be on Romper Room, ever. Miss Sally never saw me through that freaky magic mirror of hers. I could never stand that Do Bee do-gooder on that show anyhow, and I always felt a little condescended to with all that Romper Bomper Stomper Boo stuff. And with my name, I had to forget about personalized merchandise of any kind. No "Carrie" necklace like Ms. Bradshaw, no junky souvenier keychain with my name on it from the gift shop at Cedar Point. When your name is not reflected any where that you can see, it starts out as a sad thing, but it also connects you to your name with a fierce kind of loyalty. It drives home a feeling of individuality that much sooner. By the time I was in high school, I loved my name and could never imagine having any other one, despite the armies of cute Jennifers and Melissas that surrounded me. There was a group of friends in my high school who were all named Amy. Seriously. There were four of them. I always wondered what was up with them, that they all had the same name and hung out together all the time. It was so Heathers. I mean, you KNOW that they didn't all just happen to befriend each other by coincidence. The fact that they all had the same name had to have played a part in the formation of the clique, right? And if that's true, how strange. I've never even MET anyone that has my first name, let alone imagined starting a social grouping based on personal nomenclature. In fact, it's usually quite an event for me when I hear that someone shares my name. People who have met someone with my name will go out of their way to tell me about it, and I am always really interested. "Really? Where do you know her from? Tell me more about her." It's like I think that there has to be some doppelganger qualities just because we share this unique name. You know how Joey Tribbiani had a hand-twin? I feel like these people are my name-twins. We have to have some sort of bond, just because we have the same name. So I guess the Amy-Clique in high school isn't so dumb after all, since it's based on the same idea.

So this weekend, I went shopping with Jenny for some bridal shoes. She is the bride, and she needs to be wearing some shoes, so hence, we are looking for shoes brimming with bridality. We went to a bunch of different stores, and I was really focusing my shoe-chops on finding her a good pair of hoofers to get hitched in, both because I am a good friend, and also because I blew my frivolity budget on recent fun times with Biology Girl and Neighbor J. So no non-bride shoes were looked at by me, the non-bride. Except one. And it was fate. Shoe fate, name fate, all kinds of fate just flying around the room.

We were in Nordstrom's, which has a shoe department larger than my entire house. And we were making a bee-line to any shoe that may match up with the wedding get-up that she will be wearing. As we looked, there were many cute shoes that caught my eye, but I was being good on my shoe diet and bypassed them all. Then, there it was. A peep-toe pump with straps down the outstep in black and red. And of all the hundreds of shoes in that store, I walked over and picked that one up. Just that one. I flipped it over to look at the price, and written on the bottom of the shoe, was MY NAME. The price, the size, and my effin' name! I wish I could convey to you how much of a shock this was. Did I mention that I never see my name in reference to anything other than myself EVER?? It was such a shock that the first thought that came into my head was that this was somehow my shoe. That somehow, some way, a shoe that I owned had somehow gotten onto the showroom floor at Nordstrom's, and had been labeled for me. "This is your shoe," is what I said to myself. How can this be? My synaptic pathways almost malfunctioned, I tell you. It rocked my world. After a moment, all I could do was say to Jenny "check it out!" and hold up the miracle of miracles in front of her face. "Wow!" she said. "That's crazy!" And she bugged out too. Bugged out, yes, but world rocked? Probably not. I have my doubts about whether someone with a name like Jenny has can truly appreciate down to the bottom of her gizzard just how freaketty freaky that was. I thought about it all day. I'm still thinking about it. And who knows how many hundreds of women have bought that shoe, and are clomping all over the country with my name on the bottom of their soles, grinding its lovely imprint into nothingness?

That's my name. Don't wear it out.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl