By Any Other Name I Am Far Less Sweet

I am told some girls plan their weddings as pre-teens. By the time of their first prom, they have selected the flowers, the dress and the topper for their cake...

Though I was not detail oriented enough as a middle schooler to select a napkin fold for the-big-day, I thought about marriage too. Mostly, I thought about what my name might be post-ceremony. I wanted to retain my identity (all of my identity), but I also wanted to share a last name with my husband and children. So, I developed a simple plan. With a pre-marital name of Miss Vegas Sue Babe, my planned post-nuptial name would be Mrs VegasSue Babe X. That was my plan. A first-middle-name sandwich whereby my maiden name would become my legal middle name. That was the master plan.

You may not be surprised to learn that the Federal government does not consider marriage a sufficient excuse to change your first name (I sort of saw that coming too). So, I left the social security office (2 hours later...) with a new name, Mrs Vegas Babe X. Childhood dreams slightly dented, I was excited for my new life as a wife. And then I met that dastardly dude (must be a MAN), The DMV...

I learned that in the state of Nevada The DMV does not recognize marriage as a sufficient rationale to change your MIDDLE name. The clerk at the counter (1 hour later) informed me that "The DMV doesn't do that any more... 'Babe' is not your legal middle name, because it is not on your birth certificate."

When I pointed out that "X" was not on my birth certificate either, I was chastised for trying to bamboozle The DMV into believing that "Babe" was my middle name when I had no legal documentation of said middle name.

Ah-ha! Now I had The DMV on the ropes. Smiling, I pulled my shiny, new social security card from my pocket and informed the clerk that "the federal government recognizes "Babe" as my legal middle name."

Without missing a beat, she informed me that "The DMV is NOT the federal government."

I'll be honest. I took the only license she would issue, though the photo is all puffy, red eyes from the tantrum I threw in the bathroom. Cheated out of my identity, I was most angry with myself for giving up without even first writing my congresswoman to protest an irrational rule designed chiefly to harass newlywed females... but I had to have a license if I wanted to cash all of the wedding checks made out to Mrs Vegas X.

In defense of my good standing in the feminist-babes club, the establishment had beat down my will-to-self-actualize with all of those hours of waiting in line... smelly, noisy waiting rooms... crying babies... wasted lunch hours...

As if the shame were not punishment enough, I soon found that my worldly assets were essentially frozen until I went back to social security office to get a new card that matched my shiny, new drivers license... the one with the hideous photo.

This I know. With one hand on a tattered copy of The Feminist Mystique I vow to avenge the death of my childhood dream to name myself. I'll get you, Mr The DMV. You can run but you can't hide!