What’s in a name?


By Backwoods Barbie
I have not been kidnapped by zombies nor did I run for the hills of New Zealand.  Topping my list of things to feel guilty about is my possibly unnoticed absence from these pages. After months of sharing my follies, fears, and fashion faux pas of wedding planning, my brain simply shut down for a short hiatus. I survived, he survived and to my knowledge no one was featured on CNN or Mugshots, therefore it was an obvious success.
Now that I am back to the less glamorous life of work, work, and well a little more work I have finally made my way through a mountain of email, a tunnel of to-dos, and a thousand thank-you’s. It isn’t that I don’t write, I certainly do. No offense, but sometimes some of this stuff is best left resting in an old wooden chest. An 11-page expose of the behind the scenes of my wedding would certainly get me removed from many a Christmas list, or at the very least have a few asking if I should, in fact, be committed.  Writing is my therapy, my end of the day wind down, and my insurance against future meanies (well it works).
The tornado of topics twirls tumultuously as I tap away on my well-worn keys. There is very little that I can’t stretch, intertwine, and evolve into a rather impressive story about absolutely nothing. It is a gift, a curse, and an odd obsession. Sitting in the less-than-social abyss of the Social Security Administration, my meandering mind ran rampant. Is it normal to feel a loss when one changes one’s name?
My name and I have been through quite a lot. We have been picked on relentlessly, butchered at every public pronouncement and always left short in those darn little boxes on standardized tests I practiced writing it for years, for heaven’s sake! Parting is such sweet sorrow. Who knew it would bother me? Well, apparently the lady behind the window at the social security desk. Voluntarily giving your coveted number to the next waiting-in-line warrior may have given it away. After selflessly sacrificing my up next gift on less than thrilled attendees, I surrendered.
There was no burial, no ceremonious goodbye, not even a well done. In a matter of moments my name was no more.  Shouldn’t I get a tissue, a stamp, something? It is not my intent to be a star straight from the pages of the “Feminine Mystic.” I have never burned a bra, well not on purpose, and I rather enjoy having a door opened. However, erasing my name stings a bit. My sentiments failed at entertaining the social security name changing nemesis, so I took my papers, my new name, and my sense of loss straight to the chocolate aisle. The overly impressive intake of Tootsie Rolls didn’t give me my name back but did give me a distracting toothache.
I mean no disrespect. Sweet Southern Belles, forgive my public diatribe, I mean no harm. I will learn to write my new name, eventually answer when called upon, and settle for being placed at the end of the alphabet. After all, I still have the right to vote, I can wear pants, and for now I still have a right to bear arms. I just can’t do it under Crane.

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