Call me crazy, but I never really got the whole change-your-last name business.
Probably because I never saw myself as the marrying kind–for multiple reasons–much less someone who’d actually be fortunate enough to snag someone genuinely wonderful in today’s ridiculously difficult dating pool.
Because I always felt like that really hairy guy with floaties on who’d have to grab an oar, whack a guy upside his head, pull him poolside, and act all like I-saved-your-life-here’s-some-mouth-to-mouth-and-maybe-let’s-get-coffee-sometime.
You know, like a real lifeguard.
But smack me across the face and call me Sally (don’t), I did find someone when I least expected it.
And, still, I can’t really fathom how he fell into my life.
He was like *poof* insta-boyfriend/companion/friend/confidant/partner-in-crime-and-life.
It just happened so quickly that I’m still waiting to wake up from some accidental Melatonin overdose and drive to my horrible former job and be back in my former life.
But, here I am: happily coupled, and unshackle…er, employed.
(Alright, one happy outcome out of two life-changers ain’t bad.)
The main thing is that I’m happy.
Except that grumpy cat everyone keeps inserting into memes.
So when the auto technician came up to the waiting area this morning and called, “Matt Corbin,” I jumped up so quickly that I nearly launched my book across the room, smacking the employee arguing over the phone with a disoriented wrong number caller.
Was this some sort of ruse?
Was this a surprise proposal, and was I expected to walk down the ADA ramp like an aisle, clutching the license plate bracket I’d just bought like a bouquet, and meet Andy at the check-out counter, the service parts team members tossing tree air fresheners like rice?
Which is probably why I got some weird looks when I started humming the wedding song on my way down the ramp.
I mean, I’m prone to letting my imagination get away with me. But I know I’ll be the one proposing whenever the time comes. Because, really, we’ve talked about it: It’ll be safer for the general public if I have some means of knowing when to anticipate it.
So, yes, y’all should thank me for sparing you my accidental elbow-to-eye gouges, rogue flying dinner knives to restaurant patrons’ thighs, or decibel-breaking, eardrum-rupturing shrieks, all of which are likely should I ever be surprised. (That goes for parties, too.)
I aim to please.
So I got up, chatted with the technician, sat back down, and smiled to myself.
Because even though we plan to eventually hyphenate our last names, it’s still the unexpected reminders, slips of the tongue, that get me.
Because when two names collide, even with a hyphenated cushion, you know there’s a story tied with it.
And I love stories.