I have a thing for permanent markers. And ink pens. And maybe permanent-writing utensils in general. Markers, Sharpies, ink pens, gel pens, glitter glue pens, you name it; I’ve had it, plus five. Maybe I’ve always loved how something so permanent can come out of something so small. Maybe I’ve always like writing. Or, maybe I simply loved inscribing my name everywhere and anywhere.
Which I did, beginning at a very young age. For all to see. Forever.
Growing up, my parents and siblings used to find my name written all over the place. On my bed’s headboard. On my bedroom walls. On their bedroom walls. On windowsills. On the glider on the front porch. On the bottom of the bathroom drawers. It was never a glaring mark, rather one for which you had to search. Kinda like finding Waldo of Where’s Waldo? Only with fewer red and white stripes. And less surrounding chaos. At least my family always knew where I had been.
I used to love that Where’s Waldo series.
Anyway, why I was fascinated with signing my name everywhere, I’ll never know. It’s not like “Jill” was an awesomely cool name to sign over and over and over. And, I certainly wasn’t the sort of child that went looking for trouble because surely leaving my name everywhere wouldn’t help with any excuses I could create.
“Jill! Did you write on the wall?”
“No, Mom. It wasn’t me.”
“It’s your name.”
See? Not original at all. Why I didn’t stick to sidewalk chalk on concrete and pencil on paper, my parents will never know.
Maybe I just really enjoyed seeing my name in print. And, I wanted everyone else to see it, too. Maybe I just really loved writing utensils. And, my name. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful my parents had a sense of humor about it. And, still have a sense of humor about it, as they ask every once in a while what I’m inscribing my name on these days.
Nothing, Mom and Dad. Nothing at all.