Say My Name

Today I was thinking about my name. Melanie. I feel like it’s the wrong name for me. Melanie in my head is a blond cheerleader, perky and bubbly and chatty. And I am not those things. I have brownish-red hair, and I’m quiet and kind of cynical. I don’t know what name goes with that, though. Barb? That’s the name of my double.

I do have a double named Barb. She lives around here, and I’ve had several people tell me I look just like Barb, and several other people approach me and actually say, “hi, Barb.” I’m never sure what to do when that happens. Usually I just ignore them and hope they realize I’m NOT Barb. Maybe next time I’ll just say, “oh, hi!” in a bubbly, chatty way and see where it takes us. Maybe now that I have bangs we won’t be confused with each other anymore. I’m very curious to SEE Barb now, though. I want to know if we really do look alike, and if she’s attractive at all. What if she’s really ugly? Or old?

Anyway, the fun thing about my name is the way it can be mutated. I’m Mel to my family and friends . . . I wouldn’t know what to do if any of my family members actually referred to me as Melanie. My mom calls me Melly sometimes, which I think is cute. If I ever move and re-invent myself, I think I’ll be Melle. A little girl I once knew called me Mellos. And I’ve been Melanie-o and Melgel (after the Melaleuca product), and even Melmac, after ALF’s home planet (this was a long time ago).

My friend Sharla and I used to try to sign our emails with words that use our nicknames. Melancholy. Mellifluous. Melba Toast. Melanoma.

So, this post has no conclusion. I just felt like writing about this. And I don’t hate my name, although oftentimes I’m mistakenly called Melissa. Or occasionally Heather. Or Stephanie.

For the first eight months after my conception, my parents planned to call me Jerilyn.

Honestly, I think it all worked out for the best.