No Dowry
Yesterday I found myself in a dinner conversation with three other women, all in different stages of a relationship with a man: one recently married, one engaged, and the third in a long-term partnership. We began talking about whether each of us had changed, or planned to change, our names upon marriage. I felt my heart rate quicken a little when the subject came up, because this is a topic that brings up strong feelings for me, and for many other people.
As a young romantic, I used to doodle the name of my latest crush in my school notebook in flowery cursive. Occasionally, I would write, “Mrs. Melia ____ “, filling in the blank with the last name of the object of my affection. I wanted to know how our names sounded together, and I took it for granted that one day, my dream guy would fill in that blank permanently.
Part of my expectation came from the fact that I didn’t like my last name, Dicker , at all when I was growing up. Other kids would snicker at it when they heard it for the first time. Some would even say with genuine disbelief, “Is that really your last name?” (I’m sure the Woodcocks and the Hardwicks of the modern world sympathize with me here.) I hoped that I’d get married early in life so I could take my husband’s name and make people quit it with the penis jokes, already.
No Dowry