Rules for one is a bimonthly lifestyles column that investigates how to be successfully single.
You know things aren’t going to be very promising when the guy buying you a drink is named after Pooh Bear’s best friend. I was at Twain’s in Decatur on a mission to work on mingling skills and sucking down their home brews when a guy in a UGA T-shirt approached. I knew instantly he was too young, too short and too much like the guys I dated in undergrad: dedicated to their fraternity’s and thought that a beer bought way more than it did. But I decided that I had made a pact to work on making myself available and I needed to stick with it.
I shook his hand after he handed me my beer and heard a true deal breaker, “Hi, I’m Piglet.”
Luckily, I hadn’t taken a sip since a snort instantly cleared my nostrils as I said, “Pardon?” I hadn’t heard wrong. His chances wouldn’t have improved if he had said Brad, Stephen or Luke. But my focus would have been on the actual conversation instead of thinking of where that name came from. Maybe he’s a squealer.
I have always stood by the proclamation that people live up to their names. The pretty girls are always named things like Alexis, Serena or Isabella. They just sound sexy coming off the tongue. Self-assured men have names like Austin or Conrad. And then there are the poor souls who had parents who didn’t understand that your name determines your stature in life. Poor Bertha and Eleanor, poor Milton and Herbert. Your name determines a big chunk of who are going to become and how people are going to perceive you.
My parents gave me two names when I was born. My mother wanted me to have a cute, little girl name, something innocent and fun. She chose Callie. My father wanted me to have a strong name. He was sure that one day I would be president and when that happened I needed a name that stood up to that title, something proper and elegant. He named me Caroline.
Until I reached college I went by Callie. The only people who called me Caroline were doctors and my mother’s angry voice. I was seen just as my mother anticipated. I was the fun one, laid back; I enjoyed the good things in life like giggling and s’mores. I was never seen as the smart one, the serious one or the overly ambitious one. But that all changed when I went to college and Caroline became my pseudonym of choice.
My professors took me seriously. My peers looked at me like I was an adult. People thought I was studious, slightly snobby and destined for greatness. Callie may have gotten a little more attention, but Caroline demanded acknowledgment and respect.
A name may not be the end game for me, but it definitely carries a little weight. I once dated a Phil even though my conscience told me not to do it. Every time I said his name it reminded me of my best friend’s father. Not a good image when you are trying to fall in love. I want someone who holds up to their name, someone strong, confident yet silly, motivated and smart. I want a Stephen, an Alex, a Justin. Someone with a name that speaks to who they already are and who they want to be. Being named after a cartoon farm animal may be cute in the frat house, but on my wedding day, I don’t want to be Mrs. Piglet.
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