Very occasionally I find myself regressing to middle school.* Like this afternoon, when I found myself writing my name in different handwriting styles over and over again in the margins of my note pad.**

Then — of course — I tried my first and middle names with the beau’s last name instead.*** It went pretty well up until I got to the part with his actual last name, then everything went sideways. My hand faltered when faced with a new challenge. My smooth loops were transformed into hesitant, jerky angles. It was like a new personality took over midway through the scrawl.

And that’s sort of how I feel about changing my last name after marriage. Like I’d be changing my identity. My last name isn’t fantastically cool or anything. In fact, it’s kinda weird-looking and easy to mispronounce. But by the time I get married, it will have been with me for nearly 30 years. It’s unique; the product of a botched spelling at Ellis Island. It’s obscure. It’s my family history. I don’t want to give it up.

I wouldn’t be literally giving up my family history, of course. But I’m also not trading my family for his, which is what assuming his last name feels like for me. No. We’re coming together to make our own family, dig?

It all depends on how you interpret the matter, of course. A woman can be enthusiastic about assuming her partner’s last name because, for her, it symbolizes the joining of their lives. Or maybe she’s just always hated her own last name. Or maybe she doesn’t really care either way, and so she yields to custom. We all have our own personal reasons for choosing what we choose. I respect that individual choice.

Maybe this is showing my petty side, but I resent the fact that I’m expected by society to change for my partner, and he’s not expected to change for me. In fact, if he were to take my last name, he would be mocked by others. Viewed as wishy-washy. Less than a man. Not to mention that some states make it hard as hell for a man to change his name. The very nature of relationships have changed since our grandparents’ generation, but tradition is still stacked against us.

Still.

The beau’s not changing his name. He doesn’t want to, and I can’t blame him: I don’t want to either. But he also doesn’t mind if I keep my name. So it’s entirely up to me to make the decision. I’ve weighed the options over and over again. Hyphenation. Maintaining a professional name and a domestic name. Keeping my last name as a middle name.

Truth: It would be much easier for me to just keep my name forever if it weren’t for the possibility that I’ll get knocked up one day in the future.**** Whose name(s) would our theoretical progeny get? Would it be horribly complicated for me to have a different last name than my children do? How could we easily prove that we all belong to each other?

I don’t know. I don’t feel comfortable with any alternative I’ve come up with thus far. So, I’m holding off on making a decision indefinitely. I’m hoping that one day I’ll wake up and rainbows and unicorns will appear over my head and I will suddenly just know.***** And feel okay with it, too.

In the meantime, I am just going to have to settle for these rainbows and unicorns I drew on my note pad.

Are you stuck on whether to change your last name? Was your choice an easy one for you?

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* See lace-trimmed leggings, purchase of.

** I do very, very important things at work. Big things. You don’t even know.

*** The only thing that would have made this more middle-schoolish is if I had been writing this on binder paper inside a Trapper Keeper.

**** The far, far, far-off future. Did I mention how far off it is? So far.

***** Because that’s how things are usually resolved in real life.