Nicknames

I have had a bunch of nicknames over the rolling years of my lifetime. The list begins with "Teentsy," a word my older brother created to describe me after I came home from the hospital a couple of days after I was born. In college, friends called me "Tiny," except when they called me "Clod" for being clumsy or stumbling. I could not do anything about the diminuative terms, so I worked hard at achieving some level of coordination in my young twenties. That is when I took up backpacking into the wilderness, running mesa paths, downhill skiing, snowmobiling mountain vistas, and motorcycling "thank-you ma'ams" along old logging roads. I triumphantly trampled "Clod." Next came, "Iron Pants," the name male colleagues gave me as they referred to me in the faculty lounge. The moniker had nothing to do with my teaching, but rather my determination to stand up to their sexist remarks and other harassing nonsense. Then came "Honey," "Mommy," "Mom," "my favorite aunt," "Love," "Step-mom," "Professor," "Business Owner," "President," and "Gramma Karen." My nicknames provide a timeline, a list of accomplishments and a chronicle of roles. Well, at least they do until a family member calls me "Teentsy."