BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

A fact you may or may not know:

My middle name is Russell. I am also a Jr. So, if you put two and two together you understand that my father’s middle name was Russell as well. We shared the first name of Murvel. Yeah. A good ol’ southern mouthful. We weren’t unique. There are other Murvels out there, believe it or not.

Why am I telling you this? Read on.

Dad went by Russell. That’s what everyone called him. So, when I came along and was bestowed with the Junior at the end of my name, the family decided to call me Rusty. Makes sense.

Fast forward to age 12 or 13. Hormones are dumping, we stink no matter how many showers we take, hair is growing in odd places and inconsistently, we’ve been having strange thoughts about the opposite sex – or the same sex/both sexes as was the case for some – and shit is really weird. Going beyond those physical manifestations of maturing, we also begin to rebel. We begin to create our own identity that is apart from the identity we were branded with by our parents. Sometimes we decide that our identity needs a new name.

I’ll get to the point in a minute. I promise.

So, everyone remembers gym class in Jr. High (back when they called it Jr. High), right? The coach would take a laundry marker and write your name on your T-shirt so that he could yell at you like a drill sergeant and not have to remember who he was actually belittling. Sometimes, for a quarter or a semester there would be a younger coach who was there doing an internship so that he could become a full-fledged, hardcore, belittle the fat kid coach. Well, I had one of those in Jr. High. One day while we were waiting to go up into the gym and get even stinkier he looked and my shirt and said, “Merrr-Vell. Is that how you say it?” I replied, “Mer-vuhl.” He nodded, paused, then said, “You look more like a Merv to me.” Side note – he was a nice guy. I like to think maybe he stayed that way and didn’t follow the asshole drill instructor route of coaching.

At any rate, that became my name of choice. I started introducing myself as Murv.

You’re still wondering why I am telling you this. I know. Hang in there, we are coming into the home stretch.

Many people who knew me when, including most of my family, continued to call me Rusty. This did not bother me. Now, before anyone says anything, this is NOT a post about pronouns or sucking it up or any boomer bullshit. It is me saying that being called Rusty did not bother me in the least, because those people in my life knew me as Rusty.

Annnnnnnd, here’s the home stretch.

Recently, someone who knew me in grade school and more so in high school has decided that he can insult me by calling me Rusty. The problem herein is that it’s not an insult. It just acts as a reminder that I was named after Murvel Russell Sellars Senior, who I aspire to emulate every day of my life.

Oh, and he thinks calling me fat is a clever dig as well. Funny that. Some of us left grade school behind. Others clearly did not.

More to come when the spirit moves me.

Peace, Love, and Granola folks…