I hate my name

Not really. But there was a time during my childhood when this was true. No other kid my age was named Emilie (or Emily). It was an old lady name, a funny name, something like Hulda would be today.

Once I was introduced to someone who looked surprised, paused, and asked, "But what do they call you?"

The only Emilys I knew of were a Victorian novelist and the crazy old lady murderer in Arsenic and Old Lace. Every once in a while I would meet an ancient crone who shared my name.

Of course, today everything is different. Emily is the most popular kid's name, or nearly the most popular. I meet lots of little kids and teens named Emily, and even once in a while someone named Emilie (the European spelling).

Kids hate their names if they are popular, wanting a distinctive name, and hate their names if they are distinctive, wanting an unusual one. We are never satisfied. Eventually, of course, I wised up and came to like my name a lot.

On the other hand, I am very fortunate that I wasn't allowed to change my name when I was ten years old. At that time I was writing lots of short stories about a plucky orphan named Fern - she had the prettiest, most delicate, loveliest name in the world, don't you think? If I had been allowed to choose my own name at that age, today I would be Fern Kelpie.

Kelpie was my second choice. I had read a book about a little Scottish girl who was a kelpie - in that book kelpies were a sort of water fairy, although apparently the more traditional story is that kelpies are supernatural water horses that can disguise themselves as beautiful women who lure people to their deaths.

Yes, Fern Kelpie would have been a much better name.

And just think - some day in the future nursing homes will be full of Brittanies and Madisons and Ashleys instead of Ediths and Florences and Emilys. Those will be the new old lady names. I won't be around to see it, but it's fun to think about.