There is someone else at my school with the same name. Actually, it’s one letter off– but it’s a contestable silent letter that people don’t hear you say when spell your name outloud and you have to emphasize it like a fool. For some reason people are passionate about their nascent opinions about my name.
I like the co-named trouble-maker, I do. She’s hilarious. She’s rambunctious. She’s a Sagittarius for heavensake. Ok, technically we’ve never met… Although she’s received a lot of my queer mail and I’ve received a lot of her bills. Already (since she arrived a year ago and I almost swiped her $10 “free” copy card just because I could) the University imbeciles et al. have argued with me for roughly 48 collective minutes about whether or not I am right about basic facts like my age and hometown and whether I’ve ever lived in Indiana and might possibly have a twin with the same name, born two years younger. One of us doesn’t exist they think. I told them to recount their tuition dollars and divide by $42,000. Idiocy at University: par for the chorus.
This afternoon I went for my neurotically regular and always delightful Ob/Gyn appointment, truly always a delight, and discovered a minor flaw in the scheduling system. Health Services schedules by name but checks in by ID number and apparently I scheduled the wrong me an appointment. AND THEN.. even though she’s probably frolicking around California with her mom and mom, completely free of the paralytic trauma of having a name-twin, I couldn’t convince the health center to let me have the appointment. So everyone just sat there grumpy and stubborn while the nurses and receptionists talked wide-eyed and to my face about how she’d missed her appointment and they (re)booked me for September.