Because I do not have any pictures of me before December 2013 any longer, doing a #ThrowbackThursday post seems kind of ridiculous.
Unless you have a wicked story to share, heh.
Once upon a time, I was born. Days (or even weeks) prior to my arrival, there was a debate over what my name would be. And this was told to me by my parents one day and my sister another day.
Dad: "We didn't know your gender before you were born. So when we saw you for the first time, I wanted to name you Olga."
Me (when I was about 12): "Olga?"
Dad: "Yeah, Olga or even Luba, which means "love" (in Russian)."
Me: "Ummm, ewwww! I really would have been harassed in school, especially during sex ed when boys are learning about lubricants."
Mom: "But the fact that you were born on the anniversary of your Grandma Vera's death, I decided to name you Vera."
Me: *phew* (I think.)
Sister (who is 8.5 years older than me): "You heard that story from Mom and Dad?"
Me (when I was 26): "Yeah."
Sister: "Here's what really happened. I wanted a brother, Mom and Dad wanted a son, since they already have me, their daughter. You were going to be Victor Jr."
Sister: "In the event that Mom was going to give birth to a girl, you were going to be named Victoria, after Dad."
Me: "But because I was born on Grandma Vera's deathday, I was named Vera instead."
Sister: "Yeah. Pretty much."
Now, there's nothing wrong with "Olga" or "Luba", if you're coming from an Eastern European family, like I was. However, I would changed my first name so quickly once I turned 18 if I had that scenario.
I do use "Olga" and "Luba" (before, it was "Helga") to describe parts of myself; a couple of old, heavy, and cranky bewbs (boobs, breasts, tits, knockers, laser pointers; whatever). And one day, "Olga" and "Luba" will have their own bariatric surgery in the form of a breast reduction. One day.