E-Mail This Article to a Friend A Kris by any other name? When it came to getting married, the hardest decision was what to call myself after the big day BY KRIS FRIESWICK

I never liked the idea of a woman taking her husband’s name. It’s a vestige of the unsavory origins of Western marriage, in which ownership of a female was transferred from her father to her husband, often along with a dowry that rewarded the groom for taking a surplus woman off her family’s hands. The practice negates a woman’s own identity. It invalidates the years that she’s spent out in the world, becoming who she is. It is misogyny manifest.

Then I got married, and I took my husband’s name.

The path to my decision was long and tortured, and involved a lot of backtracking, second-guessing, and flip-flopping. In the end, I arrived at a solution that works for us as a couple and for me as a person. But it wasn’t easy, and I don’t envy anyone about to embark on this important discussion. If you are about to do so, embark well before you go to City Hall to apply for your marriage license. I know of one couple who got into a three-hour fight at the registrar’s window when they realized they had to decide then and there what their last name/s would be till death did they part.

It’s the first big surprise about marriage. You think you have plenty of time to figure out the name thing once you get married, and then — bam! — there’s the line item on the marriage license, and you realize this is it: decision time.

For some women, it’s not an issue. They’ve always known what they would or wouldn’t do when it came to names. They sail through the process, answering all the questions on the license, causing not a ripple at the smoothly running registrar’s office. Then there are the women who, from the moment the engagement ring slides on, are in a constant state of angst. They’re torn between the modern and the traditional, confused by their expectations for themselves, the new traditions that value a woman’s identity as highly as a man’s, their attachment to the name they’ve had since birth, and the historical traditions that their parents observed. The bitch of it is that you don’t know which of these women you are until you get engaged.

I thought I would be Woman A, when in fact I was the worst kind of Woman B — a complete waffler. I was excited to be married and have my own new family, but as a writer, my name is a calling card that I hope has at least some professional currency in the word-making community. I discussed this with my fiancé, who said in no uncertain terms, "Do whatever makes you happy." It was the right answer, but he said it with a look that left no doubt what would make him happy.

I wrestled with the pros and cons of changing my name for months before we went to the registrar’s office. Changing one’s name is a nightmare of epic proportions — far worse than moving to a new address. You can’t change your driver’s license until you change your Social Security card, and you can’t change your Social Security card unless you have the new name on your marriage license, and you can’t do that until you’ve figured out what the hell your name is going to be.

The little things seemed to loom large in my "con" column. I’d have to change my e-mail address, which would mean changing all my account information at my favorite e-commerce sites and online magazines. My then-fiancé’s last name starts with R, which comes later in the alphabet than my own F; it might mean I’d have to wait longer for things that are doled out or called on alphabetically. Then there was the unspoken con: my married name would be Mrs. Robinson. My biggest fear, though, was that if I changed my last name, no one would know who I was.

There was only one thing on the "pro" side. By changing my name, I would be symbolically joining with my husband to create a new entity: the Robinson family. We would be a small family, but we would be feisty, committed, and unified under a flag with a big R on it. I had to admit — it was a pretty big pro.

So, still utterly undecided on registrar day, I did what any Libra worth his or her astrological salt would do: I made a non-decision. My maiden name became my middle name, I took on Robinson as my last name, and I decided to keep using my maiden name professionally. Satisfied, I got married.

Six months later, I hadn’t started doing anything that would result in the rest of the world knowing that I’m now Kris Robinson. All my bank accounts and credit cards said Frieswick, as did my Social Security card. This is because I was suffering from a form of brain lock, the result of people calling me "Mrs." And also "Robinson." I apparently do not handle change nearly as well as I like to think I do.

And then, after eight months, I finally started changing everything over. Now I’m a true Libra, split in half: Kris Frieswick by day, Kris Robinson by night. People at work don’t know my married name. New people I meet don’t know my maiden one. There are constant mix-ups if I travel for work, or if I’m asked to produce identification at professional events. It’s a pain in the ass, to be sure, but it’s my pain in the ass. The Robinson flag flies high. I’m proud of my new married name. I’m proud of my "professional" name, which still graces the mastheads of the publications I write for. It might not work for everyone, but it works for me, so far.

I realize my non-decision was the coward’s way out, but it’s important to know thyself as well as thy new husband when it comes to the name-change game. I got to both keep what is mine and take on something new. And the good news is that there aren’t any rules. You can create your own.

Actually, there is one rule: figure it all out before you get to the registrar’s office. The people behind you in line will be eternally grateful.

Kris Frieswick Robinson can be reached at k.frieswick@verizon.net