I got an e-mail the other day from a very nice fellow named Mike Hubley, whose name is my name, too. This made me ridiculously happy, as my name is far from common, especially around these parts. Hubley is a German name, heavily and ruthlessly anglicized. My father’s full name, including his Anglo-Saxon sounding but actually Slovac middle name, sounds so English that he is often mistaken for a blueblooded WASP.
But enough about these names and whatnot. The best part of the e-mail was that Mike Hubley informed me that he had once dated a Jen, who, if they had married, would have become Jen Hubley. Just like me! (For the record, even if I do get married, I will remain Jen Hubley. I may make my husband change his name. Because fair is fair is fair. Not that you’ll have to worry about that for awhile. Someone asked the other day if I was getting married and I said, “Yes! June 2012. Save the date!”)
Being a Hubley is a whole thing, at least to those of us who are. It doesn’t come with a trust-fund, or any particular history, but we do have a sense of pride in our heritage, which is, as far as I can tell, a deep-seated interest in being nice and pretty comfortable and having lots of snacks around.