In college, I took a few design classes as free electives. I grasped the basic concepts and, overall, created decent work. I refuse to think of myself as an artistic genius, but at least I can recognize I might have a smidgen of talent somewhere in my pinkie finger.
I obsess over my initials. I constantly try to configure them in a unique way in order to develop my own personal moniker. On my desk, there is a lowercase, serif, silver “r.” I absolutely love this little “r” even though I absolutely despise serif fonts (that is a topic for another day). On my black, polka-dot jacket, I have a tiny, purple letter “r,” sans-serif font. That is about as far as my initial obsession has taken me, but I doubt it is over just yet.
This quest to make my initials very monogrammable remains fruitless. Every time I see someone else’s well-developed and thoroughly designed initial logo, I stomp my feet in agitation. Why can I not make REA look very cool. Not quite hipster, but not stale and overly conservative. There is no happy medium for my awkward initials. One time, while sitting in a meeting at work, I noticed that one of our directors wrote his initials with the middle letter lowercase, surrounded by uppercase letters. Mine would look like this: ReA. His looked symmetrical and mine looks dysfunctional. If I one day take Dave’s last name, I could be REB or ReB, which has more symmetry and less dysfunction, but still does not satisfy my craving.
I want something unique. Something I can plaster across stationary. Something I can use as a signature in my personal emails. Something that sets me apart from all the other REAs in this world. When every one else around me seems twice as creative, sometimes it feels as though I lose sight of my own perspective and all I see is what they do and forget all of my own thoughts. Creativity should not be so fleeting and worries about initials should be non-existent. Yet, I lack this vision and my busy mind frets over the appearance of my initials. Ridiculous.