Boyfriends and Boy Friends

“It sounds like you’ve had a lot of boyfriends.”

First of all, is that an insult? Because it sounded like an insult.

Let me take you through the lineup. The lineup that lead me to where I am today.

It all started before kindergarten. I got my very first kiss. His name was James and he lived up the street from my family.

He just so happens to be my sisters’ first kisses, too.

We were lucky to lock down such a rebellious bad boy, really. Three kisses, three girls, all in three seconds. Whew, hot damn. He’s now a married man, making his time spent as Walden’s resident bad boy short-lived.

That was the first and last time we shared a man. We made rules about that in high school.

I took a break from the game and didn’t have my next boyfriend until the third grade. The relationship started when we realized we had the same Old Navy white long-sleeve shirt with lab puppies on it. I was a bit of a tomboy and he, well he, just had really good taste.

He lost interest in the fifth grade when we were in different classes. He found a new exciting girl with so much more going on. Her name? Dana Willsey. Where was the loyalty?!

The middle school years were incredibly awkward and dating took a hiatus from me (it was for the best).

High school and college brought a variety of learning experiences, which all lead to this full circle moment. — my current boyfriend has a lab puppy similar to the ones on my fave Old Navy shirt.

Clearly, I did something right.

What's in a Name?

Growing up I had a few issues with my name. You see, my siblings have unique names. Not weird, just ones you don’t see everyday.

My older brother is Wade. I have yet to meet another one in my 23 years of life.

One of my sisters has the name Evan. Beautiful.

My other sister is Dana. In no way is it as common as Amy.

I was 8 years old the first time I had the suspicion my name was chosen from a baby book. It all started with the act of making a phone call. Now, you might think that an 8-year-old probably isn’t making many phone calls. You’d be correct.

But when I did make the few phone calls necessary to see if my friends could play, I had to give my first and last name. FIRST AND LAST! Outraged.

Chances were when I said “hi, it’s Amy” the person on the other end would deduce that the squeaky little voice wasn’t their good friend Amy but their daughter’s friend Amy.

Regardless, my sisters got to just use their first names. Like Madonna only better since they weren’t famous or old.

Shortly thereafter I had the brilliant plan to pester my mom and dad about changing the spelling of my name. I was having an identity crisis. Didn’t they understand?!

“Come on, Moooom! Just let me spell it the cool way — A-I-M-E-E.”

She was so laid back that she probably would’ve let me. Luckily, I grew out of that phase. A-M-Y is short and sweet. Plus, it was the easiest of names to learn how to spell in sign language. Take that, Evan! And just try to write a cursive “v,” go ahead.

In my graduated life, however, it has come to my attention yet again that my name is incredibly common. I work at a large company of about 1,900 employees worldwide.

There’s not one Evan (guy or girl), not a single Wade or even a Dana.

There are 14 Amys. 14!

And just to make matters even worse, Amy is the second most popular Coke bottle for Coca-Cola’s #ShareaCoke promotion. Point proven.

My parents flipped through a baby book, dammit.

It All Makes Sense Now

It all started with a curb. Just a little curb when leaving the parking lot and turning left onto the main street of our neighborhood. A curb so small I could’ve cleared it on my Razor scooter no problem.

Well, I learned the hard way that it doesn’t matter how small the curb when the only thing protecting you from the ground is an unlatched door.

It was the summer before kindergarten; I’d just turned 6. Like any other summer day, my family spent the afternoon at the pool with a bag full of pool toys and a cooler full of snacks.

It was time to load up our small army of blow up dolphins, whales and a single alligator and head the block home.

In an attempt for attention, I’m sure, I climbed in the back with the rubbery animals. No, not the back seat — I climbed in the trunk. This was pre-automated closing doors and pre-my-mom-will-go-to-jail-if-her-kid-rides-in-the-trunk-without-a-seatbelt.

So, in I clambered.

And then it happened. That miniscule curb got the best of our ’94 purple Plymouth mini-van. The trunk door flew open and out I fell onto the asphalt of Walden Drive.

My knees and hands hit first.

As if the bleeding scrapes weren’t bad enough, I had to chase (yes, actually chase) the moving van so my mom would notice that I was no longer in the vehicle.*

There were so many tears. And so many screams. And so many questions.

This was a monumental moment in my life. Maybe not for the reasons you’re thinking. It was the first time that I realized birth order truly matters. You see, I’m the middle child.

This was also the first time I realized I was, in fact, not my mother’s favorite child. Not even close.

*In my mom’s defense, she had four kids between the ages of 6 and 8. She had her hands full.

Preface

The reason I’m starting this blog, in short, is that I miss writing long copy.

I work as a copywriter at an ad agency, and as a writer for a brand I use that brand’s voice and often times I write short copy — a lot of social posts.

My background is magazine journalism, therefore I am used to writing in a voice all my own, in a longer form and I enjoy doing it like that.

But truthfully, I’m just happy to have a job as a creative. That’s what they call us in the ad world, creatives. I must admit I do love it. Lots of around the head headbands and cut-off tanks. We really are the coolest. (Still waiting/wanting/needing to bust out some overalls. That’d really make me the coolest.)

So here we are. I fancy myself a blogger. But not for the first time. I took many classes at MU that required a blog post each week.

As with anything though, when it’s required it takes the fun right out of it. But being freshly graduated, nothing is required anymore (other than making it to work five days a week).

Here’s to a fresh start in the blogosphere. All words, thoughts, essays, etc. are my own.