My last post about sharing my name with my sister-in-law, reminded me of another story about my name.
When I was 9 years old my parents and I moved to Indiana and I was intrigued by the idea that I was somewhere that no one knew me. So I saw that as an opportunity to change my name! Well, not exactly change my name — but change what people called me.
So when I met the kids in my new neighborhood I told them my name was Sandra Kay, but that I was called “Kay”. And, of course, they immediately started calling me that.
Welllll, it only took about a week for that to get really confusing. For one thing, my own mother couldn’t remember (or didn’t choose to remember) to call me Kay! A fact that the other kids surely must have noticed.
But an even bigger problem was that I had trouble remembering to answer to Kay. Someone would yell, “Hey, Kay!” and I wouldn’t even look up.
I don’t remember how I explained the change to my new friends, but I very quickly reverted to being called Sandy.
In retrospect, it’s too bad I didn’t stick with this plan. It would have made things a little simpler when “Sandi” married into the family.