I don’t really have a nickname.

When I was in 6th grade (grade 6, Canadians!), I decided “Camille” was a nasty name, and I’d much prefer to be called “Cammie.” I got my entire class in on it–teacher and all–and was quite sure that my future as “Cammie” was bright and empowering.

Me captured in my element, chopping down a Christmas tree when I was 12, during the height of my “Cammie” self.

Until I got to 7th grade and met a whole slew of Cammie/Cammy/Kami girls. Suddenly, my new personality–in its entirety–seemed less like me and more like everybody else. I had to go back to Camille.

But shortening “Camille” is a difficult task–“Cam” is rather masculine, and I’d already ruled out the “Cammie” bit. “Mi” sounded too much like something from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and “Mille” was out of the question.

But I can’t help the fact that most everyone in my family calls me “Millie.” Not just that; it’s “Millie,” “Millie Vanilli,” and–in my sister’s case–simply “Mill.”

For aunts and uncles, my parents and grandparents, this is perfectly normal. But if anybody else–friends, in-laws, anonymous commenters–called me “Millie…” It is not pretty. The first boyfriend I ever had tried to call me “Millie” on more than one occasion, which effectively ruined his chance with me, because it made me feel like I was dating an uncle. And who wants to marry their uncle? (Okay, I did want to marry one uncle once upon a time, but I was really little then–I haven’t wanted to marry him since I was 5 or 6.)

So don’t call me “Millie,” or any version of the name. I would have to then stop blogging so as not to ruin my relationship with any of you non-relatives.

Oh. And also? Evidently there is more than one way to pronounce my name. I’ve always called myself “Camille” as in “cuh*mill.” It wasn’t until I was 18 or 19 that I realised some people pronounce it “cuh*meal.” Yeah. And I never knew, until I moved to Canada and people started asking me if I prefered Cuhmill or Cuhmeal, and I was like, “Oh, I have that option? Cool.” I stuck with Cuhmill.

So if you ever meet me…whatever. Like anyone cares about this. I don’t even care. Someone, please…give me something to write about. I’m grasping at straws here.

Share this post: on Twitter on Facebook on Google+