We’ve all been there. Standing in line, either scanning the menu boards to decide what we want or already with “the usual” in mind, waiting to inch up to the cash register and step into the spotlight. Only it doesn’t come when you place your order; it comes when the cashier asks, “Can I get your name?”
There are two things you have to hope for at this point. The first is that your answer won’t be drowned out or distorted by some noise in the background, like a blender roaring to life or a small child knocking something over with a crash. The second is that your parents gave you a name that isn’t about to get mangled.
Some people can walk into Starbucks and walk out again with their actual name spelled correctly in sharpie on the side of their cup. Whenever I’ve said my name is Carol, I’ve been among those people.
My name isn’t Carol. Continue reading
The Caffeinated Writer 