At some point, we’ve all done it—naming inanimate objects. Objects which by all logic, shouldn’t need one. A car named Betsy, a houseplant named Fernando, a laptop named Puchi. It starts as a joke, but before you know it, you’re asking Fernando how he’s holding up after forgetting to water him for two weeks.
But why do we do this? Is it loneliness? A mild form of attachment? A subconscious attempt to make the world feel less chaotic by assigning identities to objects? I don’t know, but what I do know is that once you name something, it suddenly has a presence. You can’t just toss Peppy the Toaster aside when you get a new one. You have to retire him with dignity.
It makes me wonder—do these objects take on the personalities we give them? Does a car drive better because we’ve given it a solid, dependable name like Max? Would we be more likely to back up our hard drive if we referred to it as Larry, the Keeper of All Important Files? Would that one houseplant we keep forgetting to water have a better survival rate if it had a more resilient name like Thor instead of something fragile like Petunia?
I don’t have the answers, but what I do know is this: I once had a coffee mug named Linda, and when it broke, it felt like an actual loss. Maybe that’s the real reason we name things—to trick ourselves into caring just a little more.
¿Quién sabe?
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