Nicknames are like big hugs. Everyone deserves one. Everyone. When you get crowned with a nickname, it means you’re in. Like, people really, really like you. You know this – and everyone else knows this – because time was devoted for the specific purpose of creating a clever moniker, just for you.
Bono is a perfect example. His given name is Paul, but in high school his buds dubbed him ‘Bono Vox’ for obvious reasons: it means ‘good voice’ in Latin. And, Miley Cyrus’ birth certificate actually reads ‘Destiny Hope’, but because the pop star was such a smiley little thing, people called her ‘Smiley’. And, because that’s super long and cumbersome to say, it was quickly shortened to ‘Miley’.
Of course, not everyone is the creative type, which is why we have generic nicknames. They’re based off a person’s attribute or characteristic and tossed around like glitter at gay pride. I’m sure you all know an ‘Einstein’, ‘Moneybags’, ‘Ginger’ or ‘Brown Eyes’. And, then there are those Sad Sacks who give themselves a nickname. Pathetic, isn’t it? You’re not supposed to give yourself a nickname. It’s like giving yourself a massage, pat on the back, or blowjob. It just doesn’t feel as good as when someone else does it.
I know. In 7th grade, I nicknamed myself ‘Woman’.
It was my first year of junior high and I’d been answering to Meghan or Megs for 13 years. ‘Woman’ came to me, in a bathroom stall, in between science and gym class. Sort of like how the dead just come to the Long Island Medium. I was sitting on the toilet, doing what I always do when I pee: staring down at my panties, like I’m ashamed or something. I just want the experience over as fast as possible. But, really, where else are you supposed to look? Either way, I noticed the daisies on my yellow cotton briefs were no longer white, but crimson.
I got my period! And I was welcoming it, with open legs. Finally, there was nothing setting me apart from my mom and older sister. We were all the same. Well, at least once a month we were. I tore some toilet paper off the roll and carefully placed it over the stained daisies. Then I waddled to the nurse’s office to call my mom. I had to blab the good news to someone; excitement was bubbling all over me. Plus, I needed instructions on what to do next.
Mom didn’t “know what in the hell” I was so excited about, but brought me a couple of maxi pads anyway. She gave me a short tutorial before saying, “Goodbye Meghan,” which I seized as an opportunity to correct her. “Mom, I’m a woman now. Call me Woman.” Word quickly spread and my family humored me for several months. And when I say humored, I mean made fun of, because come on, that’s just par for the course when someone nicknames themselves.
I’d like to point out that this whole friggin’ mess could have been avoided had my mom slapped me upside the head with Judy Blume’s, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. Either way, ‘Woman’ stuck to me about as good as those damn maxi pads. But, not to worry. One year later I was nicknamed again – by someone else.
Periods and breasts go together like mustaches and weirdos. So, you can guess what happened next: I sprouted a pair. But, not just a couple of bumps like the rest of the girls in my class. My chest was like the blueberry inflation scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Practically overnight, my breasts had developed to a D. For some of you, that may not sound that large. Let me remind you, I was 14 and a smidgen over 5 feet. I was grossly disproportionate. Like almost as disproportionate as a toddler’s head to its body.
My mom hooked me up with a minimizer bra and cocoa butter to slather on the fresh stretch marks that were strewn over my breasts like silly string. Meanwhile my classmate, C, hooked me up with the nickname, ‘Jugs’. Charming, I know.
When C announced my nickname in the crowded hallway of Humboldt Junior High, he wasn’t being malicious. C and I had a good relationship, and even dated at one time. He was a jokester, the class clown, the kid who liked everyone and everyone liked back. C even had his own nickname: ‘Funny Man’. And, things could have been so much worse. C could have decreed me something really vulgar, like ‘Fun Bags’ or ‘Meat Puppets’. So for that, I am grateful.
Either way, ‘Jugs’ deflated shortly thereafter. But, still, each time I pick up a jug of milk from the cooler in Safeway, I’m reminded to buy tampons.
FOR KREIN OUT LOUD 