I have never particularly liked my name.
I mean, it’s a totally okay name, I guess. Kim.
But I’ve never really identified with it. I never seemed to myself to be a Kim.
(It’s not that I wanted my name to be Kimberly instead. I don’t think I’m much of a Kimberly, either.)
I always used to love it when people just called me Piper. Kids at camp called me Piper. One summer when I was a camp counselor, I introduced myself to my campers as Piper, so everyone called me that all summer long. Then I got married, and I do enjoy it when people call me Werker, but let’s be honest, Piper has more character.
Every month, I co-host a drop-in art and craft social at Hot Art Wet City with my friend Rachael. Chris, the owner of the gallery, always has mugs out next to a water jug, and there’s this one mug that I just immediately fell in love with. Rita.
At last’s night’s social, Rachael offered to grab me water in the Rita mug. She knew. Such is my love for that mug.
When I was a kid, I used to want to write stories about a tomboy named Sam or Charlie. But even then I was aware of how utterly clichéd that was. Also, I wanted those stories to be about me. I wanted my own name to be Sam or Charlie.
Now I’m just thinking Rita is obviously my alter ego.
I have absolutely no point other than to share this with you.