"Jenny"

This morning I got to work and ran straight to the loos to change out of the Tights That Like To Roll Down To Mid-Thigh (which keep managing to avoid purges, probably because they don’t have any holes in). When I came out of the cubicle, one of my co-workers was standing at the sink. She did what she always does – looked up briefly, registered that it was me, narrowed her eyes slightly, then pretended she hadn’t seen me at all and stalked out. She’s been doing this for years now, ever since this happened:

Three years ago

[I am walking from the photocopier back to my desk. I vaguely hear someone say ‘Jenny’ and assume they must be on the phone. As I sit down, co-worker approaches]
Co-worker: Jenny! I was calling you!
Me: Huh?
Co-worker: I was calling! Jenny!
Me: Oh, God, I’m sorry. I don’t answer to Jenny, I didn’t realise you were talking to me. What can I do for you?
Co-worker: [eyes narrow, voice turns to ice] Oh.

She asked me her question, I sent her the thing she was looking for, and we’ve had no interaction since. Beyond the very brief glares, she ignores me absolutely. In the early days I tried smiling at her, which she would respond to with a slightly longer glare, a small toss of the head and an offended sweep straight past me. I can find no other explanation for this other than that she was mortally insulted by my refusing to answer to ‘Jenny’.

I am not a Jenny. I’m just not. I’m no more a Jenny than I am a Susanne or a Patricia. Some Jennifers are Jenny and that’s great, but I’m not one of them. It sounds like a completely different name to me; like someone is trying to get my attention by yelling, “Hey! Desdemona!” It just isn’t my name. But because it’s a commonly accepted nickname, people use it. They know other Jennifers who go by Jenny, they personally prefer Jenny as a name, they thought they heard someone else call me that once, so they assume it's fine to call me that. It is NOT fine to call me that.

I started seriously objecting to Jenny when I was thirteen years old. It suddenly sounded weird and wrong and a bit like the addresser was mocking me. I didn’t take it up with the teachers, but all my friends were instructed, in the strongest possible terms, not to call me that anymore. Mostly it worked, eventually. Some of the schoolfriends I've stayed in touch with still do it occasionally.

Friend: You’re going to have to let us off calling you Jenny! We’ve known you too long, we can’t change now!
Me: We’ve known each other since we were eleven. I was alright with Jenny for two years and have been objecting to it for the seventeen years since. I think you’ve probably had enough time to get used to it.
Friend: Alright, alright. Jeez.

This is the worst thing. Worse than when the director of my dance school pulled me up on stage without warning and announced to several hundred people that I was the shyest person he’d ever taught (Why would anyone think this was a good idea? WHY would you do that, Scott? WHY?), and I didn’t realise he was calling me up for about three minutes because he was calling for “Jenny” and I had to spend the next three months retraining everyone not to call me that. Anyway. Worse than that. The worst thing is when people get annoyed or offended at being asked not to call me by a nickname I hate, or mock me for overreacting.

Acquaintance at party: Hi, Jenny!
Me: [having already drunk an entire bottle of wine] Argh, please don’t call me that. It’s Jen.
Acquaintance: Awww, but why? Jenny is lovely!
Me: Sure, but I don’t feel like it’s my name and I don’t like being called that.
Acquaintance: Awwwww.
Me: Please just call me Jen.
Acquaintance: [edging away from me and looking annoyed] OK.

Of course, the more this happens, the more it gets on my nerves. The more people imply I shouldn’t get upset about what they choose to call me, the more likely I am to go on a five-minute rant when I correct them. The more people I upset by correcting them on my name, the more likely I am to write long rambling blog posts about how My Name Is Not Jenny and Never Will Be, Stop Calling Me That and start plotting ways to surreptitiously circulate said angry blog post to the widest possible audience.

There is a special place in my heart for people who apologise and correct themselves when I ask them not to call me Jenny, people who correct others who call me Jenny, and people who say “I don’t know why anyone would call you that, you’re clearly not a Jenny.”

Boyfriend Back In Pre-Boyfriend Days: The funniest thing was, you didn’t even realise he was calling you for ages because he called you Jenny!
Me: I really, really hate being called Jenny.
Pre-Boyfriend Boyfriend: I was wondering for a minute whether to start calling you Jenny as a really annoying joke.
Me: I warn you, I have absolutely no sense of humour about this whatsoever.
Boyfriend Who Wasn’t My Boyfriend Yet: I can see that. I already decided it was a stupid idea. I don't think I even could call you Jenny, that just isn't who you are. You're Jen.
Me: [phew, and also yay]

A special place in Hell for people who correct me on my own name, and the most special place for this particular guy:

Nice Co-Worker: [introducing new employee round the office] And this is Jennifer.
New Guy: [to my co-worker] Jenny. [to me] Hi, Jenny.
Me: Jennifer. Hi.
New Guy: Nice to meet you, Jenny.

Message to that guy: I judged your entire worth as a human being based on this fifteen-second introduction, and I was right to do it.