…you’re remarkably, inexplicably attracted to things that bear your own name.
Clearly, I’m talking about myself (when am I not?), despite the fact that I’ve never been particularly fond of my actual name. It’s a strange paradox within myself that I don’t quite get. Of course, there’s the adorable me-as-a-child adage where I legitimately believed, for years, that when my mom and I were running “errands,” I thought they were called running “Erins” because she was taking me with her.
Luckily, before I had a chance to share this at elementary school recess, my younger sister managed to ask if we could run some “Hilerands,” prompting said maternal figure to correct our common misconception. So yes, I’ve always assumed that my name had some special quality or designation surrounding it, I’m just not sure why.
And it wouldn’t be a big deal if it ended in my youth, but it’s continued to be a theme in my life, from the products I buy to my dream vacation and favorite holidays.
My first name, for strange creepers reading this blog, is Erin. The name is a variant of Eireann, which means Ireland.
I blame this for the fact that Ireland is in my top 5 places I want to visit before I die. In fact, it’s the only European location in my top 10. Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense without the whole name thing, I don’t think.
Then there’s the whole me-loving-St-Pat’s. I’ll come clean and say that I know that St. Pat’s as we know it here in the US is not the way it was originally intended to be recognized. I know it’s not actually an important holiday. I know. I just don’t care. I wear green, put my dogs in holiday tees, send clover-covered greeting cards with far more advance planning than my Christmas cards, and drink green-colored alcohol. Last year, I even got behind cooking an Irish dinner with my friend that I was visiting. I’m totally down with the whole fake-Irish celebration in general.
But what really puts all of this over-the-top is my seemingly accidental and uncontrollable desire to own objects of furniture I picture in my head and later find…somehow named after me.
Now look, if there are some rogue angels flying around fucking with me on this one, I wouldn’t be surprised. Angels have to have a little fun now and again, too. And it’s a good one, guys. The first time it happened, I was like, “OMG, SO WEIRD that the only dark purple, pillows-rather-than-cushions couch I can find for my living room just happens to be called the Erin sofa.”
Coincidences happen sometimes. I took that one in stride. But then I found my new bed. A beautiful, beige-upholstered and colorful-buttoned accented masterpiece that I purchased yesterday after 2 years of longing. And what is this called? Oh, you know, just the Erin Cute As A Button bed. This time, I didn’t even know exactly what I was looking for, but I fell in love with it at first sight – before I read the product signage.
Okay, I mean, how me is that bed? Honestly. So me. Like, made for me. Also, a bonus if you can see into the darkened corner of the photo…that bookshelf? I found it at an antique mall with the initials “EV” already carved into it. Not as obvious, but seriously, what are the effing odds?
And so I say, “Come on, world. Come. On.” There has to be something more to this now, and I’m all for laying the blame on myself – I mean, it really is all about me.
My middle name, Elizabeth, is gorgeous in my personal opinion, and I often name characters in my fictional stories. But considering that it’s from the Bible and supposedly means “my God is abundance,” I have to admit that my pagan name might be more in line with my personality. Abundant and Godly I am not. Irish in appearance? Sometimes, when the summer sun gives me new freckles and bleaches my hair to an orangish tint. Irish in the bar? All the time.