Marcy is not my real name.

No surprise, actually, but I’ve been Marcy for 55 years and I have no plans for going back to the original. My parents gave me the name Marcia, (pronounced like Marsha) which was a perfectly nice name until I was in my mid-teens.

In 1951 Stan Freberg made a record called Marsha and John. There was a little music in the background as the man’s voice first says, “Marsha.” Almost immediately a woman’s voice says, “John.” Doesn’t sound too bad, right? There was no vocalizing, no song . . . only a man and a woman saying Marsha and John back and forth to each other. But there were two problems. The first was the way they continued speaking to each other. The listener’s imagination ran wild while they spoke softly, then more urgently. They cooed. They giggled. They teased each other. They stretched the names out. And by the very end of the record, John is saying breathlessly, “Maaaarsha, Maaaaaarsha, Maaaaaaaarsha.” And she responded, half whispering, “Joohn, Joooohn, Jooooooohn.” It was exceedingly embarrassing for any teenager to listen to, especially one named Marcia.

The second problem was that I was dating a boy named John. When the record was first released I was in the fifth grade and I never heard it. But some Boston disc jockey revived it about six years later much to my humiliation. The cat calls in the high school halls were mortifying. Between classes groups of boys would gather in a group so I could never tell who was the one oozing, “Maaaaarsha” while another in a girly falsetto would squeal, “Jooohn, oh, Jooooohn.” It got so bad I changed my routes between classes.

I think it probably only lasted a few weeks . . . it just seemed like forever. I think it finally ended after I was no longer seeing John. The relationship couldn’t survive the notoriety. If I remember correctly, he was a perfectly nice, shy red-headed kid who was as embarrassed as I was.

And that’s when I made the promise to myself. If I ever get out of this town, I’m never going to be Marcia again. My first day at college, I introduced myself as Marcy and never looked back.

You can pretty much tell my relationship with anyone who calls me Marcia. At class reunions I have had to remember that none of them know who Marcy is and I had to respond to that foreign name all night. Anyone else who calls me my original name is a relative. Bless my mother. It must have been the hardest for her. After all, she gave me that name and I rejected it.

But she’s been a good sport and calls me Marcy most of the time.

The whole category of nicknames though, seems to me to be one of affection usually. My daughter’s name is Alix. When she was a little girl, her little toddler brother couldn’t say Alix but could only manage Aga. And Aga stuck. To this day she is still Aga and often signs cards or notes, “Ag” . . . the even shorter endearment, which always makes me smile. Later, a friend called her Ally in school which then morphed into the Alligator. To this day an occasional joke pillow or mug sporting an alligator will make its way under her Christmas tree.

My mother, who in her prime was almost six feet tall, was kiddingly named “Shorty” by my step-dad. He never said it without a smile and I enjoyed watching her as she reveled in his affection.

Dear Richard’s last name is Fisher. When we married, he didn’t want me to change my last name he liked it. And, he was right . . . at my stage of the game, changing Marcy O’Brien to Marcy Fisher was overly complicated, plus, he just didn’t like the sound of it. (He was also a little put off that “Marcia” had to appear on the marriage license, but our actual vows were between Richard and Marcy) Then, as a result of our marriage, another nickname has come about, and again, endearment seems to be the reason.

Dear Richard has, for much of his life, been tagged “Fish” which he likes just fine. And now, when I come through the door after work each day, a deep voice greets me fondly, “Good evening, Mrs. Fish.” I have to say, I like it. It sounds like home.

Even at my advanced stage of decrepitude, I guess it’s never too late to pick up another nickname . . . or be truly grateful that Mr. Fish’s first name is not John.