Last night while picking up the essentials at a super store with low prices, I saw a checkout girl with the name Tigger on her name tag. Because of the high standards at this 24-hour-mega-store, I can’t help but believe that that was her actual name. More power to her if she picked Tigger as a name but, parents, weird names are stupid. I’m allowed to say that because my parents named me Sagan. Having a “unique” name is isolating and humiliating. Every introduction always goes the same.
“Hi, I’m Sagan.”
“Megan?”
“No, Sagan.”
“You sure?”
It never fails; people talk down to me as if I’ve mispronounced my own name. As if I haven’t been saying it for twenty years. The worse though, is when I meet a person who has forgotten my name.
“Hi, I’m….”
“Oh, wait don’t tell me. It was so pretty and unusually, Chardonnay?”
“What? Wait? No?”
“Well give me a hint.”
“It’s like Megan only with an S.”
“Oh Megans. Hey.”
“No… the plural of Megan… that doesn’t make sense. My name is like Satan but with a G.”
“Gatan! I knew it was something so pretty.”
“That’s not pretty. And no my parents didn’t not name their beautiful baby girl Gatan. My name is Sagan. Say-g-in.”
“Oh, well hello Saigon.”
“Nooooo!”
The point is: I think there is a special place in Minnesota for people who name their children dumb things.
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