I love to sit and think about baby names. Why do I do this?

I’m not married, or any in danger of becoming pregnant. I’m not even being courted as a girlfriend. I am as single as it gets, and closer to menopause than puberty. And, yet, I love to imagine what I would make with a baby name.

It’s usually a baby girl. I like girl names. They have personalities with subtle differences. Not like boy names, that fall into coarser categories. Troy, Chase, Dominic — probably athletes with a drive to succeed. Evan, Warren, Sol — more like poets in beatnik coffee shops. Michael, William, John — no frills types of guys.

But the difference between Helen and Helena, Elle and Ellen, Vicki and Victoria — these feel like worlds to me. The difference between black leather and black patent leather.

I string the names together — first, middle, and my last name — and imagine classmates calling them out. Nicknaming them. Forming them into their own interpretations of my original work of art. Sampling and revising and making more modern, this vernacular image I nailed down so perfectly.

And then I see that little girl ebbing and flowing with those changes. Coming into the world, pristinely polished with her given name. Then trying it on with her clothes, her makeup, her interests and thoughts. Seeing if they match. Making it her own.

And me, always wondering if I got it right.