I've always been funny about names. I think it stems from being left nameless, known simply as The Baby for the first few months of my life. I was last in a line of six, born in the middle of a party of much too much -- excess, indulgence, neglect, and tragedy. Still, it seems like a name isn't too much to expect. Even the dog that piddled in my father's slippers got a name the very first day. Lucky. 

When christening time arrived, my eldest sister, Virginia, came up with a suggestion: Lindsay. Everybody went along with it, even though it was almost exclusively a boy's name at the time. Once I reached school age, teasing ensued. Haven't you always felt sorry for boys named Marion or Carol? Growing up I longed to be called Becky or Charlotte. Neither stuck. When I turned 18, during the Viet Nam war years, I received a letter from Uncle Sam reminding me to register for the draft. Of course, when I informed them of my gender, they didn't want me.

In recent years, Lindsay (with its multitude of spellings) has become a popular, even common name for girls. It's a fine name now, really quite lovely. But time and memory conspire; I've never made peace with it.  

 These days I'm known as Meena. I like it, and I hope you do, too.