As a child, I often quoted Gloria Steinem and planned to burn my bras. Not that I wore a bra as a child. I was more of an adolescent. A feminist one. One who would sooner cut off her toes than take some silly man's name. It was fortunate that I never had a boyfriend - or wore a bra - until I was already past my feminist phase. Which I'm sure was a relief to my mom, who would have lost on any investment in bras for me, considering my intentions to burn them.
Though I carry the crumbs of my early adolescent feminist passion with me today, I'm an entirely new woman. I'll do anything for my husband. Obey, honor, protect. I'll care for him when he's sick, build him up when he feels down.
But ask me schlep downtown to a cold, sterile government building to stand in line in that room with a number machine that clearly only belongs at the deli? I think that's a little excessive. There are security guards there. Mean ones.
The husband assured me that if the shoe were on the other foot, he would have been downtown immediately following our blessed nuptials. He would have pulled number ONE from the deli machine. So, as Gloria Steinem said, "Become the man you want to marry."
Today, I'm proud I made the trip, enduring stare-downs from overworked, underpaid security guards, repeatedly explaining to the man behind the counter that there is not one, but two Z's in my last name. I am a new woman, who belongs to a very good man.
I still burn stuff though.
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