This post is an excerpt from Twenties Unscripted: A Journey of Womanhood, Writing, and Relativity. The full essay is available in the book, which is currently available for pre-sale here.
I’ve also been thinking about marriage and babies. That sounds so premature that it’s cringe-worthy. But, I haven’t exactly been thinking about marriage. I’ve been thinking about my last name. “W-I-L-K-I-N-S.” I’ve spelled it out to so many phone operators that it’s perfunctory at this point. I was spelling it out to a JetBlue sales representative earlier today in an effort to snag my $15.00 dollar voucher thanks to last week’s in-flight entertainment service not working. And, then I started to think, oh, shit, one day if I don’t wind up a spinster, this won’t be my last name. Oh, shit! I don’t understand why I have to give up my name or why I have to compromise and hyphenate it. Or why I have to make my maiden name my middle name. Or, something like that. And, then, I think that thinking those things makes me some renegade bra-burning type of bitch who will ward off potential suitors. I just don’t understand why so many people gasp at the prospect of me not inheriting someone else’s name. This is my name, dammit. I don’t find it disrespectful or blasphemous in the least that I’d like to keep it. Maybe that’s why I’ll end up an old spinster.