|I don't have the fame, voice or money of the|
"real Reba," but I do have her poster.
In this 2016 blog post, I wrote about the discomfort of having an unusual name when I was a child. I hated that my first grade teacher was trying to insist on calling me Rebecca because she didn’t like nicknames. I lamented that I was never able to find my name on the racks of hundreds of embossed keychains at the Gay Dolphin when I visited with my friends in middle school.
In the past week, I’ve eaten in three of my favorite local restaurants. While the food is always good at all three, that’s not really the main reason I frequent Eggs Up, Crave or Labraskas. It’s because they not only remember my name but also my convoluted tea order and how I like my eggs or hot dog or pizza.
In my middle aged world, someone remembering my name (or my food or drink order) means a lot. It means comfort and familiarity and a feeling that I, and my business, matter.
And while I’m always up to try new things - a new restaurant, new travel adventure, new type of food, or new way home - coming back to the places with the “Cheers factor” will always be my personal comfort food.
You can read that 2016 post about “What’s in a Name” here.