When I was five, I went to summer camp at the Jewish Community Center. On the first day all the campers were divided into groups, each led by a counselor; our first task was to choose an animal name for our group. I was thrilled that the other campers in the group saw the genius of my suggestion that we call ourselves the Golden Eagles (I really wanted to use the appropriate scientific name, Aquilae chrysaetoi, but even I knew better than to try to foist that on the other campers). The rest of the first day of camp was delightful in all respects, and I went home fully satisfied.
Then, that night, I had an epiphany.
Before the Golden Eagles’ counselor could convene the morning meeting, I explained that I had something very important to say. I had realized the night before, I explained, that although the Golden Eagles was a fine name for our group, the perfect name had been staring us in the face the whole time, and we really needed to be called the South American Giant Anacondas.
Our counselor squelched this idea even before I could insist that it be put to a vote.
The summer went downhill from there.