Insufficient Language!!!

There is an apparent absence of useful analogies for describing marriage.

Steve absolutely is my best friend, and my teammate, and my partner in crime. However, those descriptions are banal at best. I have had other best friends, and been on other teams, and paired up with people for activities I wouldn't have done alone.

There's no description in the English language of a union which enhances the self. Anything I try to compare marriage to -- friendship, teamwork, criminal activity -- is totally and completely wrong.

This doesn't mean that marriage is better than other things. (If the non-existence of a romantic partner is what makes you happiest, more power to you.) It's not objectively better than other human relationships. I'm just flummoxed by the total inadequacy I encountered when I searched for the words to answer a basic question: "What's changed since you got married?"

Nothing tangible. Everything, everything, a thousand times everything, intangible. And I can't tell you how or why.

Facing My Mortality

I'm 25 years old. I've lost two grandparents and known many other people who passed away -- strokes, accidents, diseases which won in less time than expected. But I've never considered my own mortality. Why would I? I'm young and healthy and I live in the first world, so even though I'm basically below the poverty line, I'm still vaccinated to the hilt. There's not an awful lot I have to worry about dying from.

I have promised another human being that one of us will be the one to bury the other.

This is the closest I've ever come to really understanding that one day I will die.

On Married Life: Month 7

Last week, I spent the whole day of our 7 month wedding anniversary cleaning the house. That's not so much a commentary on marriage as it is a commentary on why I didn't remember to blog that day, even though I intended to. 

The report from Month 7 is as follows: Marriage is not an adventure (yet). Marriage is a conduit for other adventures. 

Marriage is the reason that the final walls between my spouse and I are crumbling, leading us to even greater personal discovery. I already knew him; I'm learning who I am in the presence of another. That's a helluva adventure. 

Marriage is also the reason for more tangible adventures. Take, for example, my first visit to a theme park in 15 years and my first ride on a roller coaster ever. It didn't even matter that I puked my guts out. I was still with the person I most wanted to be with. I had fun.

Marriage is the reason I get to feel completely safe and completely independent at the same time. It's so much better than people said it would be.

On Being Called "Mrs. I."

Actually, no one has tried to call me "Mrs." People who should know better keep addressing me as "Amy I.," though: women who kept their own last names, people who see my unchanged name on Facebook, family who could have damn well asked.

It isn't bothering me (yet...), and I've realized why. It's something I had forgotten between the time my parents ceased to be my guardians and getting married. When my parents were still in charge of my life, EVERYONE ALWAYS GOT MY LAST NAME WRONG.

I grew up with my mother, step-father, and half-brother. They all had one last name. I had another. I had only contemplated this in the context of, "Hey, I know that everyone can be happy with a different last name, so why change mine once married?" I had totally forgotten that schools, churches, and acquaintances consistently addressed me by my step-father's last name.

I only recalled this because I recently volunteered somewhere with a man who had attended my parents' (mom and step-dad) wedding. I had earlier introduced myself only as Amy, and when he realized who I was, he said, "Oh, Amy Lip[redacted]!" My last name isn't Lip-. My last name has never been Lip-. But in that moment I recalled how, for many years, my last name might as well have been Lip-, and how it just didn't matter. He knew who I was. And after he meets my husband he'll probably call me "Amy I." Or maybe he'll assimilate the knowledge of my last name -- my "maiden name" -- and assume it is in fact my married name, because it is different from that of my parents'. I don't know. Frankly, I don't think I care. I'm the only "Amy" on the volunteer roster. I don't think I'll get lost in the shuffle.

So all the mail turning up for "Amy I.," who doesn't live here? I guess I'm acclimated already. I thought it would be an angry process but it turned out not to be. It seems that I've remembered how to tolerate it.

Our First Married Nonthanksgiving

The report comes to you from the first month of married life, but is such an important topic that I wanted to give it the full attention of its own post.

Last year, before we were engaged (we didn't have a single holiday season as an engaged couple), my ex-boyfriend-now-husband and I decided we were sick of being told Thanksgiving is a holiday. For other people, it is a holiday, and it's great for my mom that she thinks it is the best holiday all year. But it's not our style, for a list of reasons as long as my arm.

For the many years I spent being forced to participate in Thanksgiving, I resented my family and hated the holiday. Steve didn't resent it as much, but wasn't a fan. Last year we decided we'd spend the whole day at home, alone, and cook lasagna. This was instigated by my mother finally freeing me of my obligation to spend Thanksgiving with family (due to events the year before, which shall go unaccounted).

It was great. As soon as I wasn't being forced to partake in the traditions that mean nothing to me, I stopped dreading November and hating the beginning of the holidays. That first Nonthanksgiving was probably the reason I was even willing to set our wedding date in November. It also gave me the strength to say, "Hey, guess what? This is what we are always going to do, for as long as it keeps working for us."

A huge weight had been lifted. Our baby family has its first holiday tradition that is all ours: Lasagna for Nonthanksgiving. That's what we did this year, too -- Our First Married Nonthanksgiving. Before we made lasagna, we took the dog for a hike. We saw five deer, who appeared to be celebrating a Nonthanksgiving of their own. Truly a lovely afternoon. I hope to duplicate it next year.

The best thing is that I don't have to waste energy on hating Thanksgiving any more. No one can make me celebrate it. I have the security of a husband and of our own tradition, and I wish for us this scale of success on every holiday project.

Married Life: On Month 1

The actual wedding took place on 12 November, but we're leaving for our cruise honeymoon on Friday, so there's no chance of blogging on the day of the one month wedding anniversary.

It's really too bad that I wasn't able to blog more during the two months directly before and after the wedding, but a wedding is completely exhausting and I really didn't have much energy for anything other than remembering to brush my teeth before falling asleep. The whole thing is a bit of a happy blur. I like it that way (blurred, I mean). It means I won't remember the specific things that went wrong. (It's true that tiny things go wrong on important days; don't kid yourself on this point.)

So what has married life been like so far?

1.) Our relationship, home, and ways of living are exactly the same as they were before. This is good; it indicates that we were open and honest about our expectations for married life and that our habits were pretty close to our ideal before getting married.

2.) A lot of people suddenly want to know when I'm going to start popping out babies. Some of the time this question bothers me and some of the time it doesn't. It all depends on who is asking, what the context is, and what other possible topics of conversation are on the table. I have a supervisor at the main place I volunteer who is trying to get pregnant. Discussing my/our plans with her seems relevant to our workplace friendship. Discussing my/our plans with the apartment maintenance guy does not. My MIL wrote a note about wanting to see "the products of your love;" that was totally inappropriate, if you ask me, and she's more likely to end up with a sex tape than with a grandchild.

3.) We're married, but our cat is still a bastard.

4.) I thought I had made a lot of noise about keeping my name, but apparently I haven't made enough. I'm trying to stay amused when people call me "Amy I." I figure the mistake will happen for the rest of my life and I need to not let the anger burn constantly.

The Name Game

There are few things as emotionally fraught for the peri-bridal woman as the discussion of surnames. There's a lot that can be said about the name game, and the problem with having a rational discussion on the topic is that most things said about it are a crock.

Example: I grew up in a home where I was the only individual with my surname. My mother, step-father, and brother all had a different name. And the only way I can remember ever being bothered by this was that other people worried so much about how my last name impacted me. Which it didn't -- aforementioned crock.

It did not present legal problems. It did not present problems at school. No one ever freaked out or fatally misunderstood my mother when she said, "No, I'm not Mrs. Amy's-last-name; she has her father's surname."

It's a bigger deal to me that my mother had to give up naming her daughter what she wanted than that I have my father's last name, because guess what? Once you live with it for over 24 years, it's not your father's last name anymore. If you want it to be, it's just your name. I'm only sorry for her that she missed an opportunity to pass down a name she loved. I don't plan on making that same sacrifice.

I like my last name. The key word in that sentence is not "like" but "my." My last name. Mine mine mine. If I was just picking a last name out of the clear blue sky, maybe I'd pick something different. "Wilder." "Dresden." "Bewilderforce." Who knows? But right now, my surname, L., works just fine, thank you.

Now, I'm not going to be negative about FH's surname, because it's fine for him and he's had it for over 29 years, so there's clearly no need to trash it. In some ways, it's good that he doesn't want to change his name; it lets him relate to how little interest I have in changing my last name. Because, while there is a certain novelty to the idea of changing my surname to "Bewilderforce," there's absolutely no appeal in turning into "Mrs. FH." The honorific Mrs., when picturing it applied to me, makes me gag.

It stands in for "mistress." I'm nobody's mistress.

Obviously, this is a personal decision, as it damn well should be. Far be it from me to criticize the feelings of a woman who really wants to change her name, or who just doesn't give a rat's ass and is picking other battles. Fine. Run along, be empowered. You have my full support.

My personal feeling, for my circumstances, is best summed up by Meg:

I have been near blindsided by how angry I still feel over this choice. When mail comes addressed to me as Mrs. Meg His, I ask David to take the label off before I get home, so I don't have to see it. When someone addresses me as Mrs.** I literally get shaky with rage. And I didn't expect that response! What is that response? I mean, my mother is a first wave feminist, for gods sake, and she uses Mrs.! Why am I so so angry about it?

And then this weekend I figured it out on a real tangible level. We were having a long conversation with a lesbian couple who are good friends of ours, and the name change discussion came up. After we'd cycled through talking about all the different choices (combining names, hyphenating names, picking a new name, picking one persons name... etc, etc) they started talking about how they didn't really have any idea about what they were going to do about their kids names (or their names after they had kids, even) and they'd figure it out somehow. And then I fully, fully emotionally realized why I was getting shaky angry, I realized why readers were writing me, literally in tears and rage at the same time (readers who want to take there husbands name write me like this, the same way people who don't want to take their husbands name write me like this). It's because we're used to a level playing field, and on this we don't have one. It's not anyone's fault really, but thems the breaks.

This is what I had to come to terms with: That I would continue to feel anger past the point of making the decision (which wasn't even a decision, as I never even considered changing my name) and making it known. My decision will continue to be indicative of an uneven playing field.

Let's be honest: That sucks.

Some time ago, when I was in the darkest depths of teenagedom, I wrote an autobiographical poem. I don't remember the poem and I no longer have a copy of it, but I do recall the final sentence: "Be careful with my name." Certainly nothing else I wrote during teenage hell was so prescient.