Last week I got an invite for Dawn Brown.
I'm tempted to return it to sender, adopting the same method that I use to deal with telemarketers who call and ask for Mrs. Brown.
"Nope, sorry, no Mrs. Brown here." Click.
But somehow I don't think the karma that comes with making a point to family is worth it.
Maybe they just forgot. It has been over twelve years since I made a formal announcement, complicated with the fact that I'm the only rebel in my family who has gone this route. Or maybe they're just tied deep in tradition and can't comprehend any other way.
Regardless, it's all my fault. I should have just bowed to convention and taken my husband Andre's name, back in 1999, when I got married. But call me crazy, after twenty-seven years, I was quite attached to my name--in its entirety.
Andre's thoughts on the matter? "We don't have to have the same last name for me to know you're my wife." Amen to that. Now if we could just work on the rest of the world.
Like Andre's grandfather who said, "Now, why did you have to go and do that for?"
But he gets a pass. He's 80.
Or the former friend who accused me of disrespecting Andre's honor.
She gets a pass too. Far from 80, but she is divorced, on marriage number two, and has decided to honor husbands, past and present, by keeping both of their surnames.
No such scandal here.
My name? Easy. Same as it ever was. It's Andre's name that I'm really worried about; he's increasingly being addressed as---Mr. Keable.