What’s in a name?

What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

After 50 years, I’m giving it up: my surname, my last name. You may wonder why I hadn’t done it before, having been married more than once . . . the truth of the matter is I asked, and the response in return was a bit wishy-washy--something along the lines of it being up to me. Well, when you consider the paperwork, the time and effort to change everything from one name to the other, my feeling has been if it doesn’t matter to you, then heck, I’ll stick with the one on my passport, my driver’s licence, etc.

Tim, however, said yes immediately when I asked him if he’d like me to change my name. That actually made me quite happy! The new combination has gotten some interesting remarks; agreed, it has a lovely alliteration. It does feel almost, well, celebrity. But the strangest comment has to be that it sounds like a porn star.

It hasn’t stopped me.

Act I: At the office. One HR rep tells me a copy of the marriage certificate is OK to move forward with the name change, and I change the database myself as we are empowered to do and await approval. Another HR rep tells me a certified copy of the marriage certificate is required. I politely counter-argue based on what the first HR rep has told me. Agreement is made to change the name, but at some point a certified copy must be viewed by a HR rep. Sorted? I seriously doubt it. Apparently there is also the need to contact someone in IT to change how my name appears in Outlook. I just think, well, one day at a time. I expect to debut my new name at the office in 2012.

Act II: The driver’s licence. All the D1 forms are gone at the local post office; I order the D1 pack on line. Seven days, they say;  I still have a few more to go before I start stopping at all the Royal Mail facilities. You mail your licence with the form, and a new licence turns up with the new surname, same old photo. I suppose driving without a licence here in the UK is a less serious offence than in the US of A!

Act III: HMRC, which will take care of National Insurance. Their website down all day; I decide I’ll take care of that some other time.

Act IV: The passport. When you change your name, you effectively have to pay for a passport renewal, at $110, including the submission of a new photo and a certified copy of the marriage certificate. (Perhaps now you can see why both the office (see Act I) and the Embassy can’t be satisfied at the same time; I chose the Embassy as my priority.) The “renewal” form is easy to complete, available on line, and you can even pay by credit or debit card if you download and complete the appropriate form. The Embassy site says the process should take 15 days; I’ve no plans to travel until December, so this seemed like a good time to make the leap and forgo the passport. 

It’s been a comedy of errors—first, I download the form and complete it, only to realise that the site says you can’t use double-sided (how very NOT green of them) so I need to copy the form before sending. In my haste to do this at the office on Thursday, I copy the wrong side—I now have two copies of the same page. Sigh. Despite that, I think I can get a copy made somewhere over the weekend, so I’ll get my passport photo taken. There’s a shop in Cowes, where I spend most weekends, that has a sign for passport photos. I walk in, give a cheerful American hello, and say I want my passport photo taken. The lovely gentleman asks me to sit down, and while he is fetching the camera I tell him it’s for an American passport. He frowns; he is only set up to do UK passports—the US passports demand a different size. I’m deflated—the nearest next passport photo place is in Newport, a 22-minute bus ride that I’m not really willing to make as I have no reason to spend £7 to get there and back—the shopping is only mediocre and I’ve already had a long walk, thank you. I smile anyway and thank him, and decide that instead I’ll leave Cowes early enough on Sunday to hit a Snappy Snaps in London and be ready for the quick photocopy of the right side of the form at the office, and then dash to the post office on Monday at lunch.

The ferry is delayed  on Sunday to get back to Southampton (restrictions on speed around the Hamble due to diving, they tell us) and then the train to London seemingly stops everywhere, even though it is the “fast” train. The bus comes quickly at Waterloo, but alas I arrive at Angel at 5:03; Islington Snappy Snaps closes at 5:00. Monday it is! I’ve a busy day but I’ll find the time . . . and so I do, and Snappy Snaps on Holborn is happy to take two 2 x 2 photographs for a US passport for, ahem, £19.99. 

I smile, then I don’t—apparently you’re not allowed to smile any more for passport photos. The photographer / shopkeeper then asks me to move my hair away from my face; apparently there’s too much of it blocking my features. I try not to look dour, but I do. I ask for a retake. My hair is a bit wild from the wind, my nose is slightly pink from a budding cold, and my eyes, never asymmetrical, seem particularly off. I also look a little tired. Cheese. Oh, no, curds.

This is the photo I must live with for 10 years.

I have never considered myself photogenic; in fact, as I’ve aged I’ve shied away from the camera more and more—I simply don’t look good in photographs, particularly when I’m not smiling. I feel lucky to have had a few really nice pictures with Tim from our wedding—then again, it was a joyous day where I was simply bursting with happiness. I’m not exactly bursting as I sit on a wooden stool in a cramped shop in central London thinking about the next meeting I need to get to.

I could have had the shot re-taken, but it would have come out just the same. I secretly count my lucky stars that someone in this universe called Tim thinks I’m lovely despite the photographs that say otherwise. I think of the Seinfeld episode where Jerry’s girlfriend looks alternately lovely and ghastly so he keeps taking her to the diner where she looks lovely. I think of Nora Ephron’s book, “I Feel Bad About My Neck.”  And  in the end I laugh with the shopkeeper that I’ve got to look at it until 2021, and he smiles, accepts my £20 bill, and tells me to have a nice day.

Act V: Credit cards, bank statements, council tax bills, and other miscellaneous items. I’ll get there.  The pressure was really on to manage the passport—we’ve finalised our honeymoon to Sri Lanka under my married name so I simply had to get that done, and I am less inspired to rush to ensure that everything has the new seal. 

And grateful that there are no more photographs.