When I was growing up, I always wanted to be named Debra. Not the long spelling of Deborah, mind you, but Debra. And of course, I would be called Debbie. It worked beautifully with my last name, and Debbie was great by me. Of course, back then, Debbie's were a dime a dozen, and I rarely ran into anyone with my not-as-common first name. Why I wanted to shed it so desperately, I don't know. I guess being a Debbie meant I fit in better with all the other Debbies and Heathers and Kellys and Lisas and Jackies that were much more popular than me.
My daughter doesn't hang out with anyone named Debbie or Kelly or Lisa. Her companions are Emmas and Kaitlyns (spelled seven different ways, I swear) and Olivias and Laurens. I guess the good old names are just that now, good and old. We're all Moms now. My daughter goes to Ms. Lisa's house before school when I have to be at work early, and my son has playdates at Ms. Kelly's house with her boys sometimes. We're minivan driving soccer moms, God help us. The cool cliques at school are replaced by who's driving what car or who got named homeroom Mom or who's hosting what home jewelry party and who they invite. I still feel like I don't belong with them sometimes since I'm a full-time working Mom and most of them aren't, but I recognize now that it's more me feeling that than them.
Nowadays, Debbie seems a bit too mundane for me. Dated. A name of a bygone era. My name is interesting, even though it's not exotic by any means. It fits me fine, and I see no need to alter it or run from it. I could pick something else, I suppose, but nobody would pay to see me become a performance artist named "Lady Bacon" anyway.
I guess I'm just not Debbie enough anymore. And these days, I'm even more OK with the fact that I never was.