A Precipice of change

"Are you going to change your name?"
She blinked at me across the counter, kindly large eyes magnified through the thick glasses.
Huh?
"Are you going to keep your names, or change them?" She looked from Delta to me, and back again.

Delta, having known from the beginning that he wasn't going to change his name to become Delta McPipe, just sat in silence. I, on the other hand, was caught off guard, as I seem to be with most things in life.

I had to decide on the name change NOW??!

Early Friday morning, Delta and I headed over to the NYC Marriage Bureau in the City Hall, to apply for our marriage license. If you've never been to the building before, let me tell you, it's an enthralling juxtaposition of grandeur, romance, and just downright governmental bureaucracy.

As you approach the building, you pass through a sweep of towering, gothic mosaic arches. And enter into ornate, vaulted elevators which take you back into the 1930s. And your heart surges as you inhale the sheer grandeur of it all.

Until the elevator doors open to reveal the Marriage Bureau, which is probably situated in the most bureacratic office I have ever seen. Second only, of course, to the DMV. A long grey corridor, which led into a large grey room with a myriad of lines and counters. Line 1 to collect an application form. Line 2 to submit the completed form. Line 3 to pay the chashier. Line 4 to collect the license. And then, once you had the licence, that wasn't even the marriage. That just meant you were allowed to get married.

But the funny thing was, it wasn't dull and boring and lifeless like other bureacratic procedures are. In fact, the entire hall was full of happy couples, just engaged, or getting marriage licenses, or getting married. Holding hands and smiling at each other, full of life, love and hope for the future.

Delta and I stared in fascination at the sheer contrast of romantic idealism and bureacratic drudgery that inundated the room. Stared, that is, until I was rudely awakened from my reverie.

"Are you going to keep your names, or change them?"
Somehow, when reading the marriage bureau website, I had missed the line that said you had to decide on your name change right there when you applied for your license. My heart lurched. I didn't know yet. Didn't they understand that?
"Erm, do I have to let you know right now?
"Yes ma'am, or if you want to change your name in the future, you'll have to get married again."

I looked over at Delta, hoping he would have the answer. But he shrugged.
"Do whatever you feel comfortable with, Ficali. It's your name. Just go with your gut."

I felt my heart pouding in my ears. All my life, I had been Ficali McPipe. Was I really ready to change that? But even as I thought the question out in my mind, I heard myself say, "yes, I'm going to change my name please. I'm going to go with Delta's last name."

And then I sat in a stunned silence, absorbing what I had just committed myself too. I played the new name in my head. Ficali McDelta. I rolled it around in my mind, and on my tongue. Imagined what the new signature would feel like. Wondered whether I'd ever get used to having a new name, after 27 years of just being me. And yet, it just felt right, that we would have the same name. But before all these rhuminations had even had a chance to play themselves out, she was done, and had printed out our new license.

"Here - this is your marriage license, you have sixty days in which to get married."

I glanced down at it. Yep, there it was, unmistakably loud and proud. Ficali McDelta. We both looked at it, and beamed at each other.

And before we knew it, Delta and I were strolling out, hand in hand with silly grins across our faces, like all the other ridiculously happy couples in this ridiculously bureaucratic building.

Not quite married yet, of course. Not quite owning an apartment either, as a matter of fact. But inchingly closer, teetering at this precipice of change.