Name of the game

The sweet and savvy Aubrey of Adventures in Aubreyland posted a few months ago about her decision to not change her last name after she got married this year, and how that caused some people to share their very strong opinions on her decision.

The craziest thing about the story, to me, was that this is something anyone would feel the need or right to comment on. Anyone not directly affected by the change or lack thereof–which is to say anyone outside of the immediate couple. And maybe any administrative types who need to do the post-nuptial paperwork. Which is the least kind of post-nuptial fun you can have, really.

It’s probably a function of me surrounding myself with liberal thinkalikes, living in in such freethinking bastions as San Francisco and Indiana. And yes, I changed my name, so no one had the chance to look askance at me. I didn’t, quite honestly, put a ton of thought into it. I wasn’t the kind of person who thought I would, or who particularly thought I wouldn’t.

Here we see the groom claiming his new property…

…aaand he looks pretty pleased with the transaction.

But hey, my husband’s got a good last name and it lets me pretend to be a little bit French. And it seemed a little easier to be Mr. and Mrs. The Same Last Name. And we were starting fresh on a new coast (on any coast, for that matter) so the confusion would be minimized. Am I less of a feminist because I changed my last name when I got married? No. Are you more of one because you didn’t? No.

Did I lose my identity as a unique individual because my last name is the same as someone not related to me? No. Does it signify that now I am my husband’s property? Of course not. Did he get many bushels of corn and goats in the exchange? How fat were the goats? How many can stand on a bit of wobbly metal at a time? WHAT ARE WE SMOKING?

And the point, may I delicately point out, should not be, “Oh, wow, you kept your name? That was nice of your husband. He must be a real man.” NO. No way. Not his decision. Not 100% his decision, at least. It’s your name, ladies, it’s your decision. Should your partner be involved? Yeah, probably. Talk it out. Figure out what works for you both. Do it and move on to something more interesting. Like arranging all your new gravy boats into a gravy armada to plunder the high seas.

Made of gravy.

Look, it’s 2015. Don’t change your name if you don’t want to. Or change it. Take your husband’s last name, or your wife’s. Hyphenate ’em. Smoosh them together and make a new one. Take your cat’s name instead. Change your cat’s name to your wife’s. Take your coworker’s name just to freak them out. Who the fuck cares?

Here we see the bride serving some face at your antiquated beliefs surrounding matrimony.

Do others have a right to judge you for your decision, whatever it may be? Yes. Sorry. Free will and democratic society and people being judgy jerk-nuggets.

Do you have the right to punch them when they share their opinions with you? Nope. Sorry again. Litigious society.

Do you have the right to tell them that their opinions are worth exactly one back of dicks to you? Absolutely. What good is a bag of dicks? Worthless. Like, if they’re just dicks floating around unattached they’re totally useless, amirite? And… gross. Really really gross, actually. I mean, who knows where they came from? And how long they’ve been in that bag? And what’s the bag made of, is it leak-proof?

Seriously, WHAT ARE WE SMOKING?

Finally we see both the bride and groom, disgustingly happy with their decisions and requesting that all haters step directly to the left. Off a cliff. (all photos by The Workshop)

I don’t care about that bag of dicks, in fact I’d rather not know it exists. Same goes for your opinions. Do I want you to share your deeply personal and well-thought-out thoughts and feelings on this subject, now that I brought it up? Not really. Maybe a little bit. Do it if you feel compelled to.

Get it off your chest and then we can all go back to something worth worrying about. Like how good the new X-Files is going to be and how is the Cigarette Smoking Man still alive and what kind of wonderfully grotesque weird creatures will now fill my dreams? Gnarly bags of alien dicks, probably.