A Paige by any other name...

I won’t be modest, I’ll just say it. I like my name. I think it is pretty and amazingly fitting. I’m a writer, and my name is Paige. It is almost a joke, like the pastry chef named Mr. Baker or the physician named Dr. Feelgood (wait, that one actually is a joke). The only way for my name to be any more fitting is for me to marry a Mr. Turner or a Mr. Booker. But then, that might be a bit much.

As many children with unique names do, as a kid, I dreamed of having a different name – something normal with a nickname. I wanted to know someone with the same name as I had. I wanted to laugh when someone mixed us up and say, “Oh, no, that was the other Jennifer (or Tiffany or Stephanie).” But now, I’m glad that I don’t have to distinguish myself from the other Paiges. I’m one of the only ones I know.

What I don’t like about my name is the way I say it. I feel like I swallow half of it or I struggle through a mouthful of marbles to get it out. It is clumsy on my tongue - especially when I try to enunciate it. Paige is too curvy to enunciate, I end up just drawing it out and making it sound sloppy and graceless. I say my name in a rush of breath with a hard G tailing behind.

The thing is, I like how other people say my name.

My dad calls me Paigey in this light, springing way. It skips off his tongue, instead of tumbling, letter over letter, like it does off mine. Scott uses my name sparingly in conversation, but he does it very well. He sounds slightly like he is reprimanding me, but in a very fatherly way. Like he is shaking his head at my hijinks, kind of laughing to himself. I like it. Brent says my name with that special Tennessee twang that gives all the letters a little more oomph. I think the twang might add extra syllables.

In third grade, kids used to make fun of my name. Mike Fry used to heckle, “Hey Paige, is your mom’s name Book?” I would just smile an embarrassed smile and say, “No, her name is Zoe.” (Another one of those unique non-Jennifer names) He asked me every day on the playground, until I answered, “No, but my dad’s name is Cardboard.” Pretty clever for an 8 year old, huh?

I have fewer problems with my name now. It is slightly more common than it was in my youth. I think that Paige has cracked the top 100 names for new babies list. But even with my rising popularity, I hit the occasional snag.

I was babysitting Tanner and Faith on Friday, and I realized that there was no way I’d be able to whip up some fabulous, healthful, nourishing dinner for Tanner and I with an unhappy, teething Faith on my hip. I decided to order pizza.

I called in my order, over the wails of the baby girl in my arms.

Pizza Guy: What is the apartment number?
Me: Twenty two.
PG: Seventy two?
Me: Twenty two.
PG: Oh, twenty two. And your name?
Me: Paige
PG: Jade?
Me: Paige.
PG: Cage?
Me: No, Paige. Like a page in a book.
PG: Oh, okay. Got it.

Forty five minutes later, the pizza guy arrives. Faith is contently taking a bottle after being soothed by baby Orajel. No more wailing. Tanner and I are just digging in to our pizza, when I notice the order sticker on the end of the box. The name on my order?

Paper.