Being Karen

Confession: I’ve never really liked my first name. I mean no offense to my parents who probably meant well when they gave me one of the most popular names for girls in the country at the time. There was even a short-lived TV series “Karen” in the early 1960s for which none other than The Beach Boys penned the theme song.

I never like my name because it often got misunderstood as “Carol”. When my last name was Fagen, my name was misheard as “Carol Vegas” at a trade show, so I ended up getting on a mailing list with a name that sounded like a 1970s stripper.

But the name Karen has become especially problematic in the last few years as it became The meme to represent the white, over-privileged, entitled, suburban, middle-aged white mom in finance, Human Resources, data processing, fill in corporate job of your choice who will not hesitate calling your manager when the slightest thing goes awry.

The problem is that, as old-timey comedians used to say, I resemble that remark. I am a white, middle-aged suburban mom with a corporate job. And while I’m by no means rich, I admittedly was born into privilege that others weren’t.

So what do I do? I don’t want to go to the trouble of changing my name, mostly because I’m inherently lazy, just like Meme Karen. So I’ll do the next best thing — not act like an entitled, whiny harpy when things don’t go exactly my way. Understand that not everyone has my vantage point. Not be so judgemental before having actual facts. Not complain to the world when Whole Foods runs out of my favorite kombucha. In other words, not be a Karen. This was my plan all along.

(P.S. — that was me that took the last donut in the break room. Sorry, not sorry.)