Spelled the Satanic Way

Dad: Good morning! Are you awake?
Me: Sort of.
Dad: What time do you have class?
Me: 11
Dad: How old are you?
*Why is he interrogating me like this at 10 o'clock in the morning?!*
Me: Um, 22.
Dad: Well, it has taken us 22 years to figure out that your name is spelled wrong on your birth certificate.
I immediately think that my parents took the wrong baby at the hospital. In retrospect this is a crazy thought that only a crazy person would think. But I was a little comforted at the thought that there's a chance I don't really belong to this family.

Dad figured out the name-spelling fiasco when the new health insurance kicked in and Aetna refused to acknowledge the correct spelling of my first name. According to Aetna, they got my name off my birth certificate.

Mom said that she had the birth certificate corrected two weeks after I was born and all this is nonsense. Personally, I think it's nonsense that I was ever two weeks old.

But anyway, there's a chance that I will have to have my name legally changed.
And in that case I might go with something completely different, like Stacy, after the character in my favorite childhood book series, The Baby-Sitters Club.


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