A Horse is a Horse, of Course, of Course

Many studies have been completed regarding the effects that a name has on one’s life. Being too lazy to look up the research for citation purposes, I’ll just summarize by saying that some parents (and their parents afore them) must be sadists. As an adult, I attended a college class at night with a woman, a concert pianist, who told me all about the fact that she had finally found the love of her life. He was her dream, but there was a problem. She felt silly and without depth to be troubled by her particular dilemma, but I guess that since I was a perfect stranger, she thought I could be used as a sounding board. She mentioned over coffee that she had a profound obstacle to marriage because of a family name (also the name of her otherwise flawless fiancé) that was meant to be carried on into perpetuity. She had even balked at the name when she first met him.

“How bad can it be?” I encouraged, thinking that she must be unbelievably immature.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” she asked. I promised.

“Hardin Long the third, or more correctly Hardin Long III.”

I spit out my coffee. How many times in three generations had these men been slapped, had drinks thrown upon them, been walked away from, only to have the idiocy to continue this tradition? “Hello, I’m Hardin Long and I’d like to make your acquaintance.”

My husband was named after an uncle, Jack Daniel and I think it’s great, but he adamantly refused on a junior for our son due to his lifetime experiences with the name. But the ones that annoy me most are those WASPY, I’ve been rich all my life nicknames, like Tipper Gore. How the hell does a mature woman keep a name like that all of her life? I watched a talk show where the husband and wife constantly argued. His name was Cricket. First of all, I would never marry or even date a man with such a Jiminy name because if he didn’t make way to the courthouse at the age of 18 to change it, he must be a chirping idiot. This whole diatribe was set off for me when watching the news and seeing a fortyish female newscaster in a turtleneck by the name of Duffie Dixon. Duffy, Duffy, Duffy, I don’t care if you were jumping your pretty pet pony in shows paid for by your daddy when you were ten. Now you’re still introducing yourself as Duffy.

I find it highly irritating.