When I was a kid I didn't love my name. I didn't love it because it wasn't common. And I hated the way my art teacher used to say my name. I was ALMOST a Megan or a Meredith (but according to my mother, there were 6 Megans in the nursery when I was born). In fact, I am pretty sure I went without a name for a few days. Had I been a boy, this blog would be called "Being Rocky". And I am not entirely sure my dad is joking about that.
When we would go on vacation and see the novelty license plates and key chains that were personalized for sale in all the tourist traps I would check for my name EVERY single time we would see them. No dice. I would hate to know how Mother Nature, God's Gift, and Moon Unit Zappa (all real names) felt growing up.
People automatically assume that my parents were huge Casablanca fans or assume that we are Swedish (we are) but then are confused because rather than the standard blue eyes and blonde hair, I am a brunette with green eyes. Dominant hair gene got the best of me I suppose!
So, in my adult life, every time I see something called the "Ingrid" I get a little excited. I purchased a pair of Citizens of Humanity jeans back in the day with the "Ingrid" cut- I assure you I wouldn't have purchased them if they had looked horrendous, but I am pretty sure the name of the cut sealed the deal. LOCA! My friend Katy B from college sent me a Nannette Lepore dress this morning and it's called the Ingrid. And I think I may have to buy it. Heaven help us all (especially my wallet) if Mr. Louboutin should ever name a shoe "Ingrid". I will leave you with something that does say my name. A name I love. Sorry to my mom and dad for complaining about it for so many years!