You'll Grow Into It

When I was a kid, we went clothes shopping once a year for new school clothes. My mom would look at the jeans, sweaters and shirts and throw desired items into the crook of her arm and when she was satisfied with her selection, my sister and I were ushered into a fitting room. I specifically remember the pants always being too big. My hips would get swallowed in the waist and I was certain I could pull them down without unbuttoning them. My mom would bend down and roll the pant legs up. Then I would hear the same message as I heard the year before, "They're a little big, but this way you can grow into them." After all, we only bought new clothes once a year, my mom wanted to make sure I didn't have a growth spurt and grow out of them.

After we got our allotted pants and tops, we would head over to the shoe department for a new pair of gym shoes. We got to pick out the shoes we wanted but my dad was in charge of the sizing. He would help us get the right size and tie our shoes. Then we got the "Toe Test." We would stand up and my dad would say, "Wiggle your toes." While we were wiggling our littlest digits, he had his thumb on the toe of our shoe to make sure that we had enough room. When he thought we had the right fit, he would say, "Yeah, those will be good. You'll have some room to grow into them."

I thought that when I became an adult, and stopped growing, I could forgo this phrase that is said by almost every parent on the planet. I don't need any more room. I will not grow into anything anymore. However, it seems I still have to grow into one more thing . . . my name.

Pamela is a name that my dad was set on naming his first daughter. My mom liked it too and ironically, her dad would have named her Pamela, but the deal was if she was a girl, her mom got to name her, so alas, Pamela would need to be shelved for the next generation. Growing up, I knew a couple of Pamelas, but the majority of them were older than me, like my parents' age. Usually when I introduce myself, I hear comments regarding Pamela Anderson (of whom I am not equipped to be compared to), Pam Beasley from the Office (who is awesome yet fictional) or the cooking spray (that has gotten icky, quickly).

Since moving to Cincinnati, Troy and I are on the hunt for a new church. Yesterday, we went to the community church in our town. When it came time to greet others around us, the woman in front of me turned around to introduced herself. The woman looked to be about 60 years old and cheerfully told me that her name was . . . Pam. Yep. Then when she turned to introduce me to her husband, she excitedly told him that she met another Pam. His response, "Wow, I thought they stopped making those."

This is the issue I run into all the time. If I meet a Pam she is usually about my mom's age. Don't get me wrong, I like my name. I like that people have heard of it but that it is not too common. I can usually find it on a coffee cup if I was interested in purchasing such kitschy souvenirs. I like that I can walk into a room and usually be the only Pamela there . . . unless I happen to be at a Baker's Square for the four o'clock dinner rush.

Someday, I will grow into my name. My kids and grandkids will talk about the name Pamela like my generation talks about the names Betty or Helen, as "Old People Names." And at that moment, I will not have to wiggle my toes to check my fit. I will have grown into my name. 

I hope I live that long.