The Sex Appeal of a New Name
So I’m suddenly empowered enough by my orgy article ( https://suburbanmisfitmom.com/the-day-i-went-to-an-orgy-in-my-mom-jeans/ ) that I now want to write about shopping for vibrators and my ex-husband’s infidelities and sexting for friends, but then I realize I CANNOT, under any circumstance, use my real name on this shit. My kids WILL find me. I know they will – no matter how well I hide. (Somehow this explains why I’m currently typing under the weight of a wool blanket for fear that the glow of my computer will wake my teenage daughter.)
So what to call myself? What sounds like me, but hides my identity? Ubiquitous descriptors like “Sweet Sarcastic Sister” dilute usernames to a “Jane Doe” level — at which point, I’d rather just sign “By Anonymous” and just blog it up on the sidelines. But then again, I have worked REALLY hard to strip down those kinds of silencing barriers.
Speaking of stripping down, I even considered creating a stripper name using my first pet’s name followed by the street name of my childhood home. But “Susie Philrose” didn’t feel right, and, frankly, I’ve had occasion to use it before. (Long story for another time.)
I then tried to recall nicknames and insults and platitudes from the past, hoping to spark some creative insight. How do I describe my genuine self to my readers without showing them my name or face? This circuitous brainstorm led me to remember the best compliment I’ve ever received.
Unexpectedly, a lover once turned to me and said, “You, my dear, are a Stradivarius.”
It made me feel beautiful and sexy for the first time in decades. Even more than that…it made me feel WORTHY. The toll of a sexless marriage to a reticent and antagonizing man had crushed my self-confidence over the course of two decades.
But the day I was compared to a Stradivarius that self-deprecating curse was finally broken. And I realized that an inept fiddler cannot strip an instrument of its extraordinary value or coveted sound.
So I am making a conscious effort to embrace my best compliment. It’s the me I want to be. The me so few have heard. The real me. The Stradivarian Me. Full of sarcasm. Full of wit. Full of shit. But still me in all my rare, stripped-down, melodious glory.
And right now that resonates really fucking well from underneath this blanket.