A Rosen By Any Other Name

What will your name be after the wedding?

As The Regulars know, I’m getting married in 83 days. Married to the man who starred in 25 years of my adult dreams (not that kind, you pervs), and who found me again last year, fat, miserable and living in “interesting” circumstances.

Despite my attempts not to wish too much into Howard’s return, and against his own self-proclamation that we move things slowly, we’re now less than 12 weeks from wrapping ourselves and our lives around each other forever.

Not that I can imagine a tighter, more permanent knot than we have now. Our little family rituals warm me; from the soft of the ‘good-nights’ we give each other as DS falls off to sleep, all the way to the grit of battling work, school and PMS. These days I’m so happy that it’s hard for me to remember sometimes that there’s a lot going on, and that even though it’s all happy, it’s still stress.

I’m hoping that the end of this next period brings a new low and I’ll be within a pound or so of goal. So here comes maintenance. I’m so busy at work that I haven’t taken a proper, sit-and-be-quiet lunch break since I converted in April, and in a few weeks, I’ll begin my MBA program. On top of that, bridal dresses are coming in, wedding invitations call to me from beneath their tissue-paper cocoons, and the guest list fluctuates daily with a ‘are they coming/they might not’ that bests old Dr. Doolittle’s Push Me-Pull You in the number of hairpin turns it takes.

Just my side of the list changes, mind you. Howard’s list built itself the night we authored it, went through a simple edit when we showed it to his parents, and, apart from the rare news that someone simply cannot comes (with reasons such as ‘we don’t live in the country anymore’), it’s a fixed entity.

Not so the Bride’s side. Folks I wouldn’t invite to lunch are offering to invite themselves to the wedding, and others, such as my father and both surviving grandparents, drop off, their lives too difficult and/or complicated to make the drive out from Ohio. It’s crazy, and it makes me wonder about myself and why I chose/was chosen by this group of people to represent ‘my loved ones’ at the most important ritual of my life.

On that note, and a sparkling bright spot in the ‘second-to-last-minute preparations’ parade, my brother has stepped up in a gargantuan way, agreeing not only to walk with me down the aisle, but getting his tux right away AND joining Howard in the ‘I’m wearing a real bow tie’ extravaganza at the wedding.

I’m so glad I asked him. It felt weird not including him in the party before, and when I think about it, he’s probably a better escort for me, all things considered. “T” has seen more and lived more and been through lots more crap with me. I’m glad he’ll be in the pictures, and I’m relieved that his tie will look great (here’s hoping that he can show Howard how to do his tie, too.).

I’m so looking forward to the wedding, and even though some of the glitches are heartbreaking, I know that it will run smoothly and beautifully, and as close to Plan as could be expected, given there’s 100 people and heavy hors d'oeuvres involved. So, that’s aside for now. On to the whole Post-Wedding Name Change dance.

I’ve noticed that as the wedding approaches, that I’m getting a lot of ‘so, tell me what your new name will be’, and ‘what shall we call you after the wedding?’ I hadn’t thought much about it before. Howard and I breezed through it right after the engagement, and Grandma Florida lobbed it up once in her typical supportive, ‘I love ya regardless of your answer’ way, so I really hadn’t considered that it merited thought until now. But I think I’m ready to discuss it.

I’ve been Amy Mc______ my whole life. Yes, I’ve been married before. But I never changed my name legally, and though I went ahead and petitioned for the ‘return of my maiden name’ at divorce time, the fact is that I’ve been me, and considered as me, and addressed as me, since my mother named me forty-two years ago.

The reasons not to switch names at marriage have changed over time. I didn’t want to worry about changing it back—too late for that, and, per above, it doesn’t matter. A woman gets married, it is assumed that she has legally changed her name. The only mystery is whether she keeps her middle name or substitutes her ‘maiden’ name in its place. For a (long) while, I considered it personally offensive that I would be the default Gal in Court, and in line at Social Security, and starving over lunch at the DMV, to get my name switched over. And then, I just got old, and decided that if I’ve been Amy Mc________ this long, I might as well stay this way. And anyway, it amuses me when people ask, ‘so what will your name be after the wedding?’, and I reply, “Amy”, or “Mc_________”.

That doubled up in logic when I convinced X to let me name DS with my last name, rather than his. He was unconcerned about Carrying On The Family Name, and when I pointed out that I’d be carrying the babe for 40 weeks (ok, it was 39 weeks and 5 days) and pushing said infant (NINE POUNDS) from my loins, that perhaps I’d prefer it if the creature got my stamp, he agreed.

All good, and I’m glad of it, but now, faced with Howard and the memory of several girlish years when I tried his last name with my first, the argument grays up. I’m still 42, I’m still Me, and DS still shares my name. I still like my name, I like being a “Mc”, that odd place between “M” and “N” in the alphabet (according to every set of index cards). It’s got character, and it’s got Mother Ireland in there (where I’ve never been, and btw, my “Irish” ancestors were from Kentucky).

But now….now I don’t know. I think about my family. Good, hard-working, blue collar folks who couldn’t catch a break if it were made for them. They’re tough, they’re survivors, and they’re mine. But they’re not particularly warm. They….WE live far away from one another, we don’t gather together at holidays, and ‘infrequently’ is about the best we do on communication. We don’t know anything personal about one another, we don’t talk about anything of consequence, and when we get married, well, we’re happy, we suppose, but we don’t go. Can’t get off work. Too much to do. See you at the reunion. Maybe.

I’m at fault, too. I haven’t been home to Ohio since the year I got pregnant, and even then I took the trip with great reluctance. That was 2001. The trip before that was seven years prior, in 1994. I’d just broken up with the Step-Father and I didn’t care for the idea of reading all day alone on Christmas and seeing if it really is true that Chinese restaurants stay open. The year before that was 1987, when my grandmother died.

I call my mother when I can’t remember the last time I spoke to her, and I call my sister never. I have no idea where any of my aunts or uncles live, I don’t have anyone’s phone number, and I wouldn’t recognize their spouses, their children, or even most of them, if we passed on a sidewalk. It’s just how we are.

Howard’s family is like the antimatter of mine. They all live far away, but they’re tight and they’re involved with each other, and they seem genuinely to enjoy being together. They have issues, but it’s accepted as part of The Package, and even now, every day, their sense of inclusion warms me until I weep. Why wouldn’t I want to be a part of a family like that? Believe me, I do. It’s everything I never knew existed, and now that I’ve found it, want it every day forevermore.

His friends are the same stock. Loyal, loving, close and involved in each other’s lives. Not everyone is First Class Friend, but anyone who’s around is cared about and known. Why would I want to separate myself from that? I don’t; not at all. In fact, I’m rather looking forward to the new friends I’ll make under the Happy, Bordering on Ecstatic mindset. I’ve made lots of friends during the Unhappy years, and the products of those are as disappointing as you’d imagine. Not everyone is less than desirable; many are not, in fact. But enough of the Old Life Crowd exists to remind me that there could be something better that awaits me on the other side of this wedding.

So now I’m looking at my wedding as this unbelievably magical moment that has this unexpected surprise to it. In joining this family and these friends, I get an opportunity to grow up and grow old in a culture of acceptance, where I am known and understood. I’m an old dog (okay, cat), and I’m proud of me. I’m proud of many things I’ve done, and I’m even proud that I have regrets, because it reminds me that I’m human, and that my life, even now, creaks and sways sometimes. I also realize that marrying Howard and changing my name wouldn’t put any of my history behind me. It wouldn’t change anything about who I am. But these days, when I think about where I want to be and who I want to become, it’s that woman married to Howard, living happily ever after. And I want everything that involves, inside AND out.

I still don’t know what I’ll do regarding the law, but no matter how my business card reads, and no matter how I sign my social security checks in 20 (25?) years, come October 13, 2007, in my heart I will be Amy R. Those of you who didn’t know me before may simply call me “Mrs. Rosen”.

Kidding. At least for now. After all, I just introduced myself to the kid next door as “Mrs. Mc”. But no matter. He knows I’m getting married soon. I’m sure it’ll be no surprise to him that I’ve changed my name.

A the T(welve Weeks to Go).

PS-Happy Anniversary, my darling.