Our name is our virtue.

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet?" I'm not so sure about that, Shakespeare. I wonder if Willy carried emotional scars into his adult life because of childhood nicknames gone horribly wrong.

Take mine, for example: Thunder Thighs. Yes, Thunder Thighs. Sure, I was a chubby child. Until I was four, my thighs looked more like ham hocks cooked up for Christmas dinner. Obviously, Girl Power wasn't really a part of things in the mid-'70s. Otherwise, Mom and Dad would have dubbed me MensaMeg - or something like it clearly indicating the future intellectual prowess of their eldest child. Right? Right.

There were other names, too. A few were much more acceptable, like Meg-a-leg and Megpie. There were others that didn't make much sense to anyone but my father or my brother-in-law, like Dillweed or Nemo.

Nicknames, I learned, aren't exclusive to youth. As I entered adulthood, and served as the two-time editor for my college's daily student newspaper, it was months before I knew what staff members called me behind my back: Little Napoleon. I suppose that's just a fancy way of calling the Commander-in-B*tch. Well, Little N got the job done. Is it totally wrong that I kind of liked that moniker?

And, well, I sort of have a reputation for being a hot head when it comes to the race course, too. Once or twice (OK, 10 or 12 times) I have been known to push (OK, body slam) other runners during a race. In my defense, some people are idiots since they stop, dead in their tracks, right in front of a water stop with no thought to the people running up behind them. What else am I supposed to do? There's no where to go but forward. If it involves bulldozing someone, so be it. I guess getting called Road Rage is somewhat deserved, but it's not premeditated or intentional. I swear! I don't enjoy hurting people (much).

I know I'm not alone. There are few who escape puberty completely unscathed. Poor Sister S took a pair of scissors to her own hair, desperately in need of bangs at the age of eight. And thus, like that fabled, mystical, one-horned, horse-like creature of yore, Uni was born. The name dropped when her hair grew back, but what kind of sister would I be if I didn't bring it up now and then? Sister E christens herself with all kinds of names. She started asking everyone to call her E-Dog at one point for whatever reason. Later it was E-licious. She's just a little too much of a white girl to keep updating her rap alter ego - yo, Sister E, sorry.

Even poor Daughter X, at the tender age of almost three, is not entirely immune. While Dr. X and I refuse to label her with names focusing on specific body parts, we have fun just the same. Sack of Potatoes. Sport-tita. Baby Burrito. Crazy Woman. Naked Crazy Woman. When she actually shouts out, "I'm a Crazy Woman!" in the middle of the grocery store, we can't help but laugh in spite of the sympathetic looks from other shoppers.

Although, when it comes to nicknames, I'm not sure I'd want to switch with Daughter X. What name would I rather wear - that of a person in desperate need of both clothing and psychological assistance or someone with a real shot as a contestant on "America's Biggest Loser" for thigh-size alone?

Simple, easy Meg suits just fine! Just don't get in my way - you'll get shoved. And I don't want to hurt you.