True Confession Tuesday: You can call me Cynthia

For as long as I can remember, I haven't liked my full name, Cynthia (sorry, Mom and Dad...). Growing up, it always conjured up pictures of a completely obnoxious, hoity-toity society girl with blond hair, someone who thought she was better than anyone else. Where did I get that idea? Books? TV? I don't know. Anyway... I have always preferred to be called Cindy, with a "y" except in seventh grade when I spelled it Cindi.

Then along came the whole security thing, you know, having your legal name on things, like your credit cards, which needed to match the name on your ID, like your driver's license. And I realized we had been filing our tax returns for years with my nonlegal name, Cindy. Although the IRS apparently didn't care about that as long as they got their money on a yearly basis.

Then I noticed that people started calling me Cynthia because that is what it said on my credit cards. And my Borders rewards card, where the barista would say, "Cynthia, we'll call you when your bagel is ready," at which point I usually said, "Yeah, I know that's what it says but please call me Cindy." Whatever. Like they actually cared what they called me.

And then for some unexplained reason, Mark has started calling me Cynthia. Huh? And it's been catching on with a couple of my close friends.

I also noticed that my favorite fabric vendor's name is Cynthia. Cynthia. Not Cindy. "Hmmmmm," I'm thinking to myself, "She likes it and she's young and really cool."

So go ahead. It's okay. You can call me Cynthia. I'm kinda starting to get attached to it.