Bruce Wayne & Starbucks

I'm pretty sure this is going to be preaching to the choir or selling ice to the Kings Cross echelons, but I've reached a roadblock in my relationship with the Starbucks employees and I don't know how to proceed. I'm a fraud, a fake, an impostor, someone who pretends to be someone else. I've been lying and deceiving the good people of the two-tailed mermaid, and I'm ashamed.

**

Some of us are lucky enough to escape school without being targetted for our "exotic" names. Fourth-class plebs create slogans and design rap battles around derogatory rhymes that are tattooed on the minds of our hormonally disbalanced peers. And its almost a physical struggle for teachers and adults alike to pronounce your name, adding a little more flavour to your adolescent ride. If you've never had your name mispronounced, misspelled or misunderstood, and you're not familiar with that Kelly Clarkson song, then I hope your empathic abilities are in working order.

Whether you've got a colourful ancestry or your parents were just cruel, having a unique name or a unique spelling to a name can be detrimental to your popularity and interfere with the evolution of your self-esteem. Its true. Especially when people seem to develop a mild speech impediment during their journey through your name. You somehow manage to feel embarrassed for them and for yourself. That's a lot of weight to carry during such a sensitive age. But luckily, the worst of it is just during the MOST IMPORTANT YEARS OF YOUR LIFE.

Just kidding.

It gets better, in a way. Kind of. On occasion. Its an OK ice-breaker usually. At the very least, you learn to handle situations better. Or you adopt a permanent nickname. Essentially, you adapt. Perhaps this is what Darwin had in mind: you tend to develop something akin to a sense of humour, nurture witty comebacks, and sharpen your ability to spot those that carry a similar burden. You might even outlive those with "basic" names. It also highlights the cultural black holes in society. With the huge cocktail of cultures currently nesting in almost every corner of Australia (and countless still trying to enter), you'd hope there would be some universal agreement of how your name should be pronounced. You might also hope that Katy Perry or Charlie Hunnam are still going to reply to your Instagram comment (that's not his real account, btw. Trust me). Real world disappointments can be traumatic.

Now I don't think I have a "weird" name, and I refuse to believe it is hard to pronounce (belonging to the family of Simon, Simone, and Simonette), however many have stuttered through it, often extending Simon with an "ahhh" or just deciding that Simone sounds better. This brings me to my current dilemma. For a while now I've been claiming the name "Sam" at Starbucks. I understand that they intentionally misspelled customers' names, resulting in an unconventional marketing campaign. But that was kinda funny and a little sweet. My experience... not so much. 

The barista would ask for my name, I'd reply, and they'd do a double take as if trying to recall the movement of my mouth. I'd repeat it, and they'd impatiently jerk a nod. Eventually, I started providing "Sam". My life changed for the better. I didn't perspire as much in their routinely cold store, nor did I spend double time at the counter ordering. Eventually, I didn't even hesitate when they asked for my name.

It was almost as if my life had reached it's equilibrium.

Aaand then things pretty much did a 180. I frequently visited the same Starbucks and got to know the coffee magicians. They stopped asking for my name because they had learned it: "Hey Sam, how you going? Will that be a cappuccino today? Or you going Americano?" It's like when you tell a small lie to get out of trouble, and you're ecstatic that it was believed. Until you need to keep it going. The guilt builds up to an indescribable pressure that eventually has you either changing your story or telling the truth. A horrible inconvenience. I started getting paranoid that they knew I was lying, and I was convinced their greetings were adorned with insinuations of suspicion. I imagine this is what Batman feels like when he starts to suspect that people are connecting the dots between him and Bruce Wayne, and not in romantic way. Who should make the first move? Should I tell them my name isn't Sam? Will that break the irreplaceable bond that's taken us 14 months to solidify? My heart always skips a beat when I pull out my bank card to pay, and I pray that their vision can't compete Clark's.

So I've started playing out various possible scenarios if I were to tell them the truth. We'd all laugh awkwardly and they'd assure me that my name wasn't hard to pronounce at all. In fact, they'd say, when they were backpacking across the Venezuelan alps, they met countless Simonas, one of which was a reasonably accurate clairvoyant. And then all future interactions would follow this awkward template: they'll joke about what my real name is, whether I work for the CIA, and what my friends call me. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that kind of commitment with a barista. I've only recently converted from Zarraffas. What if I convert to Gloria Jeans? #lol #unlikely 

I guess you could say I'm in a bit of a rut. My options are limited, and I don't see an attractive way out. The longer I stay mum, the more unnerving it might be when the truth finally emerges. But do I want to start the process of the awkward template earlier than I need to? What if they never find out? I wouldn't have this problem if my name actually was Sam. 

If you're soon to be a name-maker, consider the potential future interactions of your little bun. 

Please.