The label maker

I went to the doctors yesterday. The receptionist asked enquiringly, “who is your next of kin?”

I was torn between asking if that was a truly relevant piece of information and answering the question like an adult.

Honestly, should I be dying and my next of kin need to be contacted, I am unlikely to be at the doctors. I imagine I’ll be lying on the side of the road after an horrific car accident. Since I don’t carry my doctor’s phone number around with me, I doubt she will be contacted. I think I might be seeing someone in the A&E, not my GP who prescribes antibiotics. 

So, anyway, I decide to be an adult and I give her the name of my next of kin, she asks if he has the same surname. 

“No” I reply.

“So, he is your….?” The question hangs in the air.

“Husband” I say definitively.

She cocks her eyebrow.

I glare into the crown of her head as I stand over the counter. Then I completely surprise myself. Rather than lose myself in creating an excellent, award winning dramatic soliloquy about feminism and the role it has played in our society, in an argument that would never fall on deaf ears, I am lost, instead, in the word: husband.

OMG. I have a husband. I am a wife.

I’ve been married for nearly two years and I still go into a whirlwind spin at the terms: husband and wife. I feel so old, so adult, and must appear so normal. I never thought I would get married. I never thought I would find someone to truly love, let alone have them equally love me back. How on Earth is that possible?

I move along to think about all the other normal things that I do. I work, have a house (with a mortgage) and a dog. The icing on that normal fruit cake with marzipan and icing, would be a child. We’re still deliberating about that one. While, sure a child sounds nice, what happens if I decide that I want to be a contestant on So You Think You Can Dance? What happens if someone in New York decides that I am actually the perfect person to head up their uber cool, totally unique and never before seen creative industry? What happens if my desire to be rock star actually comes to fruition (inability to carry any tune, including Mary had a Little Lamb aside)? What happens if I suddenly become much more exciting tomorrow than what I appear to become today?

Likewise, what happens if Hugh Grant comes to Brisbane, realises that I’m his true love and wants to spend the rest of HIS life with me. BupBow. Too late, Hugh, you missed this love boat. 

Married. I’m a wife. I have a husband.

I am being altogether completely ridiculous. Of course he is the main character in my life. When I go home to him at the end of the day, spend my evenings and weekends with him, when we plan our future, laugh at how stupid we are and laugh at our self-deprecating jokes I don’t even think about our being married. I am too busy being comfortable, contented and happy. 

But when I do think about being a wife and having a husband, I just about crumble under the sheer weight of this barrow-load of labels. Wife is just one, albeit, the most grown up label I have had so far, and it occasionally freaks me out. 

Some labels are fun, like the ones we stick on our feet, or the ones we have as a handbags. Others are more definitive. It’s like when you’re at a party and someone asks, “So, what do you do for living?” in the hope it’s not something better than what they do for a living. Or if you’ve met someone truly innovative they ask, “What do you do in your spare time?” You congratulate them on not asking the work question, all the while enduring their smug smile as they pat themselves on the back for cleverly addressing the dichotomy of our existence. 

“So are you married?” They ask next. I can’t blame them, I suppose, when I’m in a more generous mood. How else do we get to know each other? How else can we start to compartmentalise each other into little boxes. 

In answering this question there are usually only four suitable answers.

   1. Yes, married.
   2. No, single but looking.
   3. No, but in a relationship.
   4. No, just broke up with someone, but soon to be back on the market once my shattered heart heals.

What about:

   1. No, not married, never intend to be, I think the idea is ludicrous and can’t work out the point.
   2. No, not married, not in a relationship, I really enjoy having my time to myself.
   3. Yes married, and hating every minute of it.

Now that I answer “yes” to “are you married?” I am asked 1. When are you having children?  I want to answer: when I stop being a child myself, when I stop thinking drinking mid-week is a great idea, when I don’t want to buy fun, useless, wear one-time pieces of clothing, when I don’t want to have a beige leather couch anymore, when I stop swearing all the time, when I drive a sedan, when I don’t speed at every opportunity, when I manage to cook at least three decent meals a week, when I eat 7 serves of fruit and vegetables a day, when I become more centred, when this yoga thing kicks in, when I finally learn how to get a handle on this husband/wife/marriage thing, then I might, just might, consider becoming a mum. 

I left the doctors with a prescription for some antibiotics and a smile from the woman who didn’t seem to approve of my not taking my LSH’s surname as my own. I went home, jumped on the computer and asked LSH what he was making for dinner. What's in a label anyway?