Never Ask Questions

I have a bad habit of never asking some questions that I should and often asking questions that I shouldn’t. Like, sometimes I don’t realize that my line of questioning and what people could infer about my thought processes might lead them to believe I’m a psychopath.

But that’s only sometimes. Then afterward I always feel really guilty. You know, like what I just said came out sounding an awful lot like I’m plotting to kidnap someone’s child when…really? That’s not what I meant at all. By then it’s usually too late and I’ve made a horrible first impression. Oh, I didn’t mention that I most often do this the first time I meet a person? Well, yeah. THAT.

I don’t know how I ever got a job at a day care. (Yes, I do. I’m a competent, responsible adult. You know what I mean though.)

The questions I don’t ask almost always revolve around nicknames. Seriously, I will never ask a person what their nickname means. I think it may stem from childhood trauma when my cousins would call me Lizard Breath. Or the embarrassment I suffered in 10th grade when I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut. You see, I used to be known for blurting out whatever was in my head (I once used the phrase “trailer trash” out loud in junior high before I remembered that half of my class lived in a trailer *cringe*), but I’ve come a long way since then. Back in 10th grade though, I was in my language arts class and on the first day of school a roster was going around the class and we were to write the name we wished to be addressed by. Back in those days no one called me “Liz” and only my closest friends called me “Lizzy” so the name I wrote that day was Elizabeth. I scanned the page before writing my preferred name and noticed a new one on the page. Before the filter kicked in I blurted out,

“Who’s ‘Big Stick’?”

And it was loud. There was laughter. My eyes widened when I realized what I’d said and I ducked my head to write my name. I handed the sheet to the person behind me and swatted at my friend who was now proceeding to ask the new guy what his nickname meant.

I think that’s where the trepidation about asking the meaning behind a name began forming. There was another guy, “Tater” — never asked about that one either. Maybe he liked fried taters. Or maybe it was/is a reference to an area south of the belt line — I don’t know. Then there were “Scooter” and “Enos.” I don’t know about the latter two, but the former? Oh yeah, they still go by those names. (Hi guys! Please don’t share the meaning of your nickname with me. I’d rather remain in the dark.)

It wasn’t until a few years ago when I started working in an office that I ran into someone with another interesting nickname. (This was also the place where I was referred to as “Sabrina” [nickname] and “Alyssa” [by people who stop listening after 3 syllables on the phone] more often than my own name.) I finally had the guts to ask somebody. Cause this nickname, well…makes it sound like he could be a really difficult person to deal with. But when I asked no one would tell me. I was left to assume, like always, and I’ve got a pretty wild imagination. And if your name sounds mildly perverted or something, or like you have some kind of problem, well, that’s what I’m going to think. You need some kind of disclaimer like, “Yes, my nickname is Furrball but it’s because I was born with a mop on my head, not because I have an affinity for stuffed animals, scritching, and fursuits.”

So I went through the first few months of work there waiting for “The Fury” to live up to his name. Expecting some kind of anger issues or at least meanness. What did I get? The most soft-spoken person in the building.

Beats me.

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