My name. I sign it everywhere -- my job, credit card receipts, deliveries to home and work. It's this thing that I own but am not completely attached to.
It doesn't look like me, it doesn't sound like me -- it's actually quite weird. I'm named after my father, and the name itself is a bit old, a bit long, and it doesn't flow off the tongue very easily. I was embarrassed of it as a child, and would spit it out quickly in hopes that the name-asker would skip over me quickly.
They never did. They would repeat it, looking at it oddly before scanning the room to see what unfortunate bastard answered to it.
But, even more than that, it has always seemed uncomfortable. It is a man's name, and I've never known exactly who that man was. When it slides out of my mouth now, my mind tries to form an image of the man such a name might represent -- and it invariably has never represented me.
Since birth, though, I have been blessed with a very short nickname (my first and last being quite long). It's what I've always answered to as long as I can remember, plus it's much cooler sounding than what's on my birth certificate. But still, when someone says the name, my mind paints an image of a cool, suave (maybe sexy) guy with a tailored shirt, a colorful tie, and a nice head of hair that can combed up into a faux-hawk.
Again, not me.
And, I'm not the only one that thinks this -- when someone new sees me, and my reputation has preceded me; they stand,shake my hand and always seem to say, "Oh, you're (my name)!" as if they were expecting someone else.
But, I don't mention this because I hate myself, or the expanding body that's beginning to spiral out of health -- but just to say the name has not only never fit, it never could.
It's a man's name . . . and I have never been a man.