When I was a sophomore in college twenty two year ago, I once spent 3 solid hours getting ready to go out one Saturday night with my then good friend, Lynn. Lynn was a popular member of a popular sorority on campus, and I was the exact social opposite of all that a popular girl in a popular sorority is.
We finally sailed out into the night once I was bathed, tweezed, perfumed, made up to perfection and dressed in what I then considered my by far "coolest" outfit. (So cool that I actually saved it until a year or two ago, until my 2 teenage daughters howled at it so derisively that I finally tossed it. Looking back, I realize I probably should have sent it to the producers of VH1's "I Love the 80's", but I was too tired to hunt for a box large enough to accommodate those Chicago Bear shoulder pads.)
But anyway, that long ago winter night back in Ann Arbor, I was positive my efforts had paid off and that I looked good. Not just good, but sexy with come hither eye make-up and the mousse in my hair holding the "feathers" in it just so. (Think Pat Benatar.) My jeans tucked into my short high heeled boots. (Think Pat Benatar again and never mind that the jeans were so tight that I could have caused someone a grave injury simply by exhaling, which would have caused the waistband button to shoot off with such force that it surely would have put an innocent bystander's eye out.)
Within five minutes, Lynn runs into a cute frat guy she knows and introduces me. "This is Lesley." And he nods at me and then he and Lynn have a very involved conversation about all their Greek brothers and sisters and I just stand there, nodding and smiling like I have a clue who they're talking about and trying not to blink too much so that my mascara won't smudge. When they finally finish, this adorable guy gives Lynn a kiss goodbye and says to me "Goodnight Helen."
Yeah, you heard it right--Helen. Is there any more an insulting name to mistakenly call a college junior trying to look sexy than HELEN, the name of your grandmother's roommate at the nursing home, for God's sake? The only woman who would be thrilled to be called Helen is one with a worse old lady moniker--those poor souls whose mothers named them Mildred or Dorothy-- after the spinster aunts they hoped would then leave them all her money when she died instead of to her cat. Compared to those names, Helen is a Playboy centerfold type of name, one who lists her interests as motorcyles and sky-diving.
I don't remember the frat boy's name, I'm no longer friendly with Lynn--but the memory of The Helen Incident has always stuck with me. Even now, I'd like to think that there is a remote chance that a stranger might think that I give off the exotic aura of possibly being named Deidre, Alexis or Justine. Instead, I'm burdened by the knowledge that something about me screams "Helen", a name reminiscent of a housedress wearing woman who knows how to make a flaky piecrust, clips coupons faithfully and drives a dependable sedan.
It's not the image I would have hoped for, but hey, at least I'll fit right into the retirement home
when I finally get there. And as added bonus, I'm pretty sure that Helen is the perfect name for the Shady Rest Bingo champion too.
We finally sailed out into the night once I was bathed, tweezed, perfumed, made up to perfection and dressed in what I then considered my by far "coolest" outfit. (So cool that I actually saved it until a year or two ago, until my 2 teenage daughters howled at it so derisively that I finally tossed it. Looking back, I realize I probably should have sent it to the producers of VH1's "I Love the 80's", but I was too tired to hunt for a box large enough to accommodate those Chicago Bear shoulder pads.)
But anyway, that long ago winter night back in Ann Arbor, I was positive my efforts had paid off and that I looked good. Not just good, but sexy with come hither eye make-up and the mousse in my hair holding the "feathers" in it just so. (Think Pat Benatar.) My jeans tucked into my short high heeled boots. (Think Pat Benatar again and never mind that the jeans were so tight that I could have caused someone a grave injury simply by exhaling, which would have caused the waistband button to shoot off with such force that it surely would have put an innocent bystander's eye out.)
Within five minutes, Lynn runs into a cute frat guy she knows and introduces me. "This is Lesley." And he nods at me and then he and Lynn have a very involved conversation about all their Greek brothers and sisters and I just stand there, nodding and smiling like I have a clue who they're talking about and trying not to blink too much so that my mascara won't smudge. When they finally finish, this adorable guy gives Lynn a kiss goodbye and says to me "Goodnight Helen."
Yeah, you heard it right--Helen. Is there any more an insulting name to mistakenly call a college junior trying to look sexy than HELEN, the name of your grandmother's roommate at the nursing home, for God's sake? The only woman who would be thrilled to be called Helen is one with a worse old lady moniker--those poor souls whose mothers named them Mildred or Dorothy-- after the spinster aunts they hoped would then leave them all her money when she died instead of to her cat. Compared to those names, Helen is a Playboy centerfold type of name, one who lists her interests as motorcyles and sky-diving.
I don't remember the frat boy's name, I'm no longer friendly with Lynn--but the memory of The Helen Incident has always stuck with me. Even now, I'd like to think that there is a remote chance that a stranger might think that I give off the exotic aura of possibly being named Deidre, Alexis or Justine. Instead, I'm burdened by the knowledge that something about me screams "Helen", a name reminiscent of a housedress wearing woman who knows how to make a flaky piecrust, clips coupons faithfully and drives a dependable sedan.
It's not the image I would have hoped for, but hey, at least I'll fit right into the retirement home
when I finally get there. And as added bonus, I'm pretty sure that Helen is the perfect name for the Shady Rest Bingo champion too.
posted by Lesley at 9:02 PM
2 Comments:
I'm 26, and I think Helen is an amazingly beautiful name. In fact, there are few names I like better.
Now that I consider it further, it's intriguing how names tend to cycle in and out of favor throughout generations.
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