As a child I hated my name. HATED IT! I thought it was the epitome of boring. Plain vanilla. Worthy of a plaque in the Girl’s Boring Hall of Fame. I thought I was more exciting than the name bestowed upon me; more deserving of an extraordinary, special-sparkly name.
Cathy or Catherine, my given name. Blah. There wasn’t even good rhyming that went with Cathy. Cathy, Bathy, Wathy, Tathy…no real words rhymed with Cathy!
I was annoyed.
I longed for something more brilliant, more happening, more cool.
I was suffocating in a deep sea of Cathy’s and Catherine’s; I knew it was holding me back. From what? I don’t really know.
But I would dream for hours about how unique I would be if my name was different.
“Just change it.” I would say.
There were two names I felt would give me the life of pink poodles, ballet slippers and candyland castles I KNEW existed and I completely deserved.
For me these names were Millicent and Penelope. Don’t laugh! I LOVED these names. I think Penelope has even made a comeback.
With these names I wouldn’t have been just Queen for a day, but Queen for life! Yes, I would have. I know it.
I knew having these names would allow me to aspire to the extravagant life of an ice skating princess, known for wearing a pink feather boa and glittery tiara. I would have long locks of golden hair that would be combed daily (by someone) with a diamond-studded brush.
Yes, now I know I was in fantasy land. But back then, it was such a good escape.
Did you want to change your name as a child? I promise I won’t laugh at your choice.