*blue balls not included.
On the day of my birth, I was to be: Melissa. The hospital had another thing coming, as five other Melissas were in the birth sanctuary that May 9. FIVE. So, my parents grabbed one of those baby name books, scanned the M’s, and came up with Melinda.
Melinda. It is Greek for “Love Song.” I am neither Greek or a love song, but my favorite is “I’m All Out of Love” so guess that sums up a big life story for y’all.
For those that didn’t know “Mel” was short for Melinda… well, now you know, dufus.
Growing up, everyone called me Mindy. Taking charge of my favored Biggest Individual status during high school (which means annoying, not fat), I changed the spelling to Myndee. (*sing-songy* l’m Myndee with the double E… *clap* *round-off-back-handspring-back-tuck* From Jun-ior. Varsity.) Yep. I sure did individual cheer competitions during summer camps. Lame-o.
But oh did I swoon the day when Brett Borovic called me Melinda in ninth grade. The day, I’m pretty sure was the last day of junior high (you know, Mentor High School = 9th grade still not high school). Well, Brett (massive crush attack… I think he was in my Home Ec class?) finally acknowledged my being. Last day of school. I’m pretty sure I died my hair black and gave him a blow pop all to make him like me… before snapping an infamous pic of the event, and getting on the bus ride home for the summer. *sigh*
Where the hell was I…
As I matured from high school cheerleader to college cheerleader (yes, really), I forced my friends to make the switch to calling me Melinda. (HSS still utilized Mindy, but he was sacred). My Nana was really the only person to use my full name, outside of my mother being all pissed non-stop and all “Melinda Christine” when she needed something.
Then in my young 20s – all sexed-up, discovering what bisexuality had in store for experimenters and attempting to become… I don’t know, more manly? I was all about looking for tail on dating websites and Yahoo! groups, and I made the androgynous name switch to Mel.
Most people are solid on calling me Melinda these days (old Friends and coworkers) or Mel (boyfriend and everyone else in the land). My dad still calls me Minnie. And when I run into HSS & friends (who know us while we were dating), they still call me Mindy. ‘Tis weird to hear.
It’s like why strippers use stage names – when someone yells out your name somewhere, you know how you know them.
Like upon hearing Loretta. Or Juliette. Two of my favorite alter-bar-egos.
Have you ever changed your name? Nicknames? Have a fake name for strangers? Make up a cheer to include your name because you are that damn narcissistic?
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This blog is about pursuit: a transplanted Clevelander (me) in a new city (that's you, Pittsburgh!), pursuing the role of a self-employed copywriter, becoming a roller derby badass and somehow merging all my to-do items into one ever-growing Bucket List.
And of MY boyfriend. His blue balls started this mess.
