The Name Game

A newly married young woman of about twenty-something years with all the fiery conviction of youth and the unyielding confidence that comes from having read half an article in a magazine on feminism told me that she refused to take her husband’s last name. She declared that she would proudly retain her mother’s last name instead.

Being a man of considerable years and a penchant for devilment, I found the entire matter amusing. I nodded sagely, stroking my beard, and asked her as casually as a man inquiring about the weather, “And how does your husband feel about you using your grandfather’s last name instead of his?”

Now, this is where things became interesting.

The newly minted missus immediately started explaining in great detail how the husband, being the enlightened sort, was perfectly supportive of her decision and how it was, in fact, a sign of their mutual respect and understanding. She carried on like this for a good fifteen seconds before my question finally landed somewhere in the vicinity of her cerebrum.

Her monologue abruptly stopped, her mouth hung slightly ajar, and her eyes narrowed like a hawk spotting a particularly obnoxious squirrel. Slowly, the dawning of comprehension turned into a thundercloud of irritation.

Without a word, the woman marched off with all the indignity of a queen exiting a roomful of jesters. As she turned her back on me, I could not help myself.

“What did I say that was untrue?” I called after her, my voice dripping with mock innocence.

She paused, spun halfway around, and with a grand flourish of modern indignation, raised both middle fingers high enough to block out the sun.

I laughed so hard on my way home that I nearly drove into a ditch.

It is a rare joy to witness youthful passion meet the immovable wall of logic and rarer still to survive it unscathed.