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Broke Wife, Big City
What’s in a name?
By Aprill Brandon
People often spell my name wrong. This is usually through no fault of
their own but rather because of an impulsive decision I made as a young
girl. One of those passionate and spontaneous moments of childhood that
only happen in childhood because sometimes when you’re nine you know
yourself better than when you’re on the cusp of 39.
For those of you who don’t know, or never noticed, I spell my name with
two L’s. I changed it in the third grade because every parent in the
early 80’s in southwest Ohio thought April was just a super terrific
name and, as a result, there were what felt like hundreds of us in my
small elementary school. Technically at least seven. Most importantly,
three alone just in my class. Tired of being April B., I decided to set
fire to the old me and emerge from the ashes as Aprill. That’s right.
April...but with TWO L’s.
Aprill! Yes! Because Aprill is so much more exotic than plain old
boring April. April was a month. Aprill was a force of nature. Aprill
could do anything. Wear her jeans pegged! Rollerblade without a helmet!
Know all the lyrics to a Tupac song! (And not the radio edit version!)
With a name like that I was destined for big things. Like becoming the
first supermodel doctor archeologist who wrote novels on the weekend.
Granted, not everyone was on board with this change. My teacher
repeatedly marked my grade down on all my spelling tests because I
spelled my name “wrong.” Nevertheless, I persisted. Unfortunately so
did she, which is why I got a C in spelling that year, but I think I
made my point.
Because eventually everyone forgot that April B. ever existed. I was
now known as Aprill, that girl who puked on the playground that one
time! (It was hotdog day. It wasn’t pretty).
And thus things remained until last week when I went to Starbucks,
where I discovered I hadn’t been nearly ambitious enough with my name
change all those years ago. Because right there, on my cup, staring
back at me in black and white, was the most beautifully unnecessary way
yet to spell my name.
“Aperal”
APERAL. I mean. What?
I’ll admit I laughed at first. Even shared it on social media to get
some laughs and also show everyone that I am a very important writer
who writes very writerly-like at Starbucks with all the other important
writerly writers of our generation.
But, and I’m not proud of this, but it got me thinking. What if that
was my name? What if I was Aperal? And if I was, who was this Aperal?
I mean, sure, Aperal looks like a cross between the name of
prescription drug with horrible side effects and a fancy drink women in
their mid-40’s order at two in the afternoon. But you have to admit
it’s memorable.
I’ll tell you one thing, Aperal is probably not the kind of person who
only wins arguments in the shower. Oh no, Aperal would win them right
then and there and while completely dry.
When someone asks Aperal what she does for a living, she wouldn’t go
“oh, I’m kind of a writer.” Oh no. She’d say “I’m an award-winning
columnist and writer.” And then she’d probably do something really cool
like chug an entire martini and throw the glass into the fireplace
(because Aperal is the kind of person who is always casually hanging
out by fireplaces).
And Aperal would definitely have the nerve to get a pixie haircut and
dye it platinum blonde like Aprill has been wanting to do for
years.
Aperal probably doesn’t have insomnia either. Nope. You’d never catch
her slowly eating an entire block of cheese dipped in guacamole by the
glow of the refrigerator light because she hasn’t got a good night’s
sleep in three weeks and nothing matters anymore.
Aperal can probably get into her sports bra without pulling a muscle and knocking over a lamp.
Aperal could send a text without agonizing over its content until she got a reply.
I bet Aperal even knows how to French braid. Like some kind of hair wizard.
And when Aperal’s kids misbehave in public, Aperal would get them in
line by turning into a stern but lovable Mary Poppins as the entire
playground looked on in awe, as opposed to growling at them and
whipping out her Darth Vader voice, terrifying everyone within hearing
distance.
Sigh. It does sound nice. Completely reinventing myself again. To
become that better version of myself that is hiding underneath all the
ketchup stains and undereye bags.
In the end though, Aprill, for all her faults and pretentiously
referring to herself in the third person, isn’t that bad. And Aperal,
for as amazing as she sounds, wasn’t the one who built this life from
the ground up. A life full of mistakes but one I’m proud to call my
own.
Besides, wasn’t it someone famous (Aperal would probably know) who said
“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”?
So, I think I’ll stick with remaining Aprill for now.
But I’m keeping Aperal in my back pocket. Just in case I’m ever casually hanging out by a fireplace.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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