My Mom and I share the same first name. (Which is not Gigi). We look alike. And some people can’t tell the difference between us on the phone. So, at an early age, I earned a neat nickname that stuck.
Now, if we work together or I owe you money, it’s my Mom’s name. Which also comes in handy with telemarketers. Anyone who calls my house and asks for “XX” is told I’m not home. If they ask for Gigi, well, that’s a different story.
“The Gigi” happened just before marriage #1 … you could call it the ‘preppie period,’ where I went by the name I had been born with and not the nickname. After a wild-child youth, I cleaned up nicely and was all set to have a perfect life as the perfect wife to a perfect man with a perfect job in our perfect home.
My plan was deeply flawed.
Anyway, my maid of honor and I were doing a little pre-wedding drinking, and soon-to-be-ex’s best man heard us reminicing about the old days. He stopped in mid-sentence and asked … “YOU’RE THE GIGI?”
Imagine my surprise to hear that a full six years earlier an angry girl, who had recently discovered that her boyfriend was seeing three other girls at the same time as her, crashed the boyfriend’s party that best man was at. And remembered her tirade in minute detail.
That’s where “The Gigi” came from.