"And, not to worry all you Jessicas, but you are next, my dears." So warns an older Jennifer (Graham) in yesterday's Boston Globe ("The rise and fall of Jennifers").
Jennifer has had my experience. In a store, someone says Jessica, I turn around, and the person replying comes up to my knees or has chartreuse and aquamarine hair. Or used to. Now I'm running into those Jessicas on conference calls and scrambling up corporate ladders. The name hit its US zenith in the '80s and '90s; it was #78 in 2009; tops was Isabella, my aunt's name. Jennifer doesn't even make the top 100 anymore.
I was 15 when I met my first other Jessica (Hawthorne, hi). Growing up, my parents made a point of telling me about great Jessicas (Tandy and Dragonette, e.g.) so I wouldn't feel so alone in a world of Cheryls and Lindas.
But mainly I've been called Jennifer, sometimes by people I know well.
So again, my name is Jessica.
