Meet the Rodent

I've always had an unhealthy obsession with nicknames. I think it was because when I was little, my sister had one (Penske), and all I had to go by was lame old boring Heather. In retrospect, "Penske" is hardly a name one should be jealous of, it is after all a moving truck company. But of course back when I was 6 such logic could not make its way past my stubborn resentment of my sister and her very "glamorous" nickname.

The day I was christened with my first nickname was consequently a crowning moment in my life. I was in gymnastics class, dressed in a pink festive unitard - the very same one that my Barbie proudly clad, only bigger. I remember the moment vividly, bounding around on the trampoline, somersaulting through the air when my Coach yelled out, "Looking good Heater!" Heater? Heater? Had he momentarily lapsed into a moment absentminded amnesia and forgotten the "h' that followed the "t." But then the incident repeated itself several times throughout the day and soon I had given up my given names and relished the glory of my brand new name - Heater. Sadly this name was not reflective of anything about me. I was permanently freezing and my gymnastics did very little to "heat up" the gym to say the least. But none of that mattered. I was now special enough to be festooned with a nickname, it could have been Poobrains or Sparky for all I cared.

Sadly a few years later I quit the whole gymnastics business after some unfortunate repeated incidents involving my head and the floor. And quitting Gymnastics meant "Heater" would no longer get to feel special for one hour of every week. In fact, "Heater" was no more. Around this time I decided to join dance classes more properly suited to my nonexistent tumbling capabilities. Dance became my favorite part of the week, and one day I was minding my own business when my dance teacher bestowed upon each of us our Dancer Names. I was now Henrietta, the whirly twirly ballerina who floated across the stage with all the grace of a flamingo on roller skates. Sadly, our dance teacher had a difficult time keeping up with our dancer names, so she lapsed into adding a Sue or Lou to the end of every one's names. I was officially Heather Sue, and my friend Amy was henceforth Amy Lou. Sometimes Miss Colleen would mix up the Lous and Sues and a Heather Lou would slip out of her mouth and hit my face like an open handed Slap. Heather Lou? I hope she didn't expect me to respond to that? Who was this lady to mess with my identity like that. Come on, now.

I doled out the nicknames to anyone near and dear to my own heart. My sister, aka my "Cherished One," my best friends, Amy "Urchin" and Jamie "Bruisy Bruisy," in the desperate hope that someone would love me enough to name me back, and happily, that say arrived in high school. And terrible as the name may seem, I bear it with the utmost sense of pride.

Meet . . .

. . . Drum roll . . .

THE RODENT.

Yes, the Rodent. You ask, rightly so, why on Earth would anyone be happy to be called a rodent? Well, I blame it one my parents for leaving me out of the exclusive nickname club and years of yearning to be special have resulted in a general acceptance and even sense of JOY whenever I am called by a name other than my own. So thank you, Amy, my little Urchin, for loving me enough to call me your Rodent. I know you mean it in the most wonderful sense of the word, a small cuddly creature with the hair of a goddess and fuzzy warmth of fleecy mittens. Obviously.