In TGI Friday’s tonight, over non-alcoholic (!) cocktails, Bobby and I reminisced and lamented the death of our youth. Exaggerating slightly of course, but that particular chain bar has been the site of many a debauched and hilarious scene and it seems hard to reconcile the fact that our conversations tend to be peppered with the more “adult” concerns we thumbed our noses at what seems like only yesterday.
In work the other morning I was complaining about having to phone up Tesco Online because the mince had gone rancid for the third time, and as I listened to myself proclaim “at least they refunded the delivery charge this time!” triumphantly I cringed a little inside. When I was 24 I’d be going into work talking about the great band I’d seen the night before; these days I’m talking about mince.
I really need my holiday.
So we booked the wedding venue, and for the first time I was faced with The Question. “What name do you want it under?’ she said, and it took me a minute to figure out what she was talking about. “Well, both, I suppose, since I’m keeping mine…” I blurted, not sure of the protocol or of whether I’d sound like an idiot but she sounded genuinely delighted if a little surprised as she added our names to the venue’s diary.
I never really made a conscious decision that I would be Keeping My Own Name. I don’t suppose I ever had to. When I was a belligerent teenager, an anti-establishment young twentysomething, I was never going to get married. I’ve been referring to myself as “Ms” ever since I was aware there was an option that didn’t assume that a woman’s marital status was a part of her identity. Working in the legal field, the title is commonplace too – a solicitor’s practicing certificate tends to be issued in the name that it is issued in; that’s it.
I like the rationale behind a “family name” as a symbol of unity. It shouldn’t automatically have to be the husband’s of course, but I don’t think it’s fair of me to climb up on some feminist soapbox about how others might choose to identify themselves. There is always hyphenation, but when you’ve already got a double-barreled first name like myself you could end up being ten minutes in the doctor’s surgery just to have them yell out your bloody name. I suggested “Fringer” as a compromise, but it was quickly nixed by my other half.
What my desire not to change ultimately boils down to is that I am extremely comfortable with my identity, and I love my name. When I was a kid in the midst of my X-Files obsession I had all these books on the occult that my dad picked up for me in various bargain bookstores, and one had a chapter dealing with numerology. The book claimed that by assigning a numerical value to each letter in your name and adding the digits together until you ended up with a single figure you’d be able to figure out your personality type, and the implication was that if you changed your name either through marriage or deed poll or whatever else then your personality would change as a result. Now I don’t believe that any more than I believe that one twelfth of the world’s population are going to have a shitty day tomorrow just because they happen to be Pisces, but I certainly find it interesting. And let us not forget that as writers, both myself and Jay have already worked to establish our professional reputations, and don’t think I haven’t already googled what my married name would be to discover that there was already another one out there.
Still a bit stunned to discover that 71% of Americans think a woman should take her husband’s name though.
Related: But you can’t get married and call yourself a feminist anyway! bleat some of the comments on Ellie Levenson’s recent article on her “feminist wedding”. I don’t always agree with everything Levenson says but I think she and I have a similar view – that what feminism boils down to is the concept of being able to choose. Happily I’m marrying a man who’s as much a feminist as I am.
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