I distinctly remember the day in fifth grade when my beloved teacher, Mrs. Meinhardt, entered the room to say we had a new student. She was looking directly at me. The reason? This new girl had my same exact name. Same first name. Same last name. Same middle name. Seriously. The only difference? She was Sheri with an S and I was Cheri with a C.
And thus it began. Me being known as Cheri with a C and her being known as Sheri with an S. It didn’t take long to realize that she was the naughty Sheri. A trouble maker. A bad girl. By eighth grade, it was very obvious. So obvious in fact, that my mom got a call at work one day saying that I would not be allowed to participate in eighth grade graduation. Without missing a beat, she asked how her daughter’s name was spelled. When they spelled it with an S, my mom informed them that they were calling the wrong mother. It was a very good thing that I had filled my mom in over the years about my evil twin.
That same year, I was sitting in my classroom, the typical rule-following good girl, when the principal’s secretary came over the loud speaker into our room and asked the teacher to send me to the office. Having no idea why, I went into the principal’s office. I had never even met the principal before. She shot me a dirty look.
“Sit down,” she barked as she closed the door.
“Um…I think you have the wrong Cheri.” It was awkward. My 13-year old self was scared shitless.
As we ventured into high school, I saw less and less of the other C(S)heri. Part of the reason is that she got pregnant when we were sophomores. I am not really sure if she even graduated high school. I know she wasn’t there the day we graduated because she was not sitting next to me.
Fast forward many, many, many years. I have not given my name’s doppleganger a second thought. It is my wedding day. My sweet dad decided to surprise us with a personalized ice sculpture. What a nice thought right?
One look at the sculpture and all I could think was, “Of friggen course.”
In the words of Homer Simpson, “D’oh!”