“Hi Fran, it’s me. Listen, cancel my three o’clock. I’m still at the spa and am gonna splurge for the massage.”
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There was a time in my life when the thing I wanted most in the world was a pair of shoes. It was right out of college when I moved in with Patrick – I didn’t have a job, I didn’t have any friends and I didn’t have any money except what my mom had given me to buy groceries. Patrick and I had been together for two years when I followed him down to Florida. I knew it was where I should be. I was sure of it. In fact, I was sure of everything; sure I’d get a job after taking a couple months off for the summer to relax after college, sure I’d make friends in this new, very hot place and sure that I’d find my niche in this new place. Yes, I was sure I had it all figured out.
The first time I saw the shoes was during a quick trip to the mall with Patrick. Not sure what we were there buying considering both of us were broke, but we were there nonetheless. They glowed from the store window – brown cloth Sketchers with patches of different cloth patterns and colors sewn on. They looked like slippers with a rubber sole and an elastic strap across the top to keep them from slipping off. I stared at them, stopping in the middle of mall traffic, Patrick’s hand in mine. He stopped and looked back. He used to hate holding hands in the mall. “I want these so bad.” “I know you do. One day you can come to the mall and buy everything you want. We’re just not there yet. We’ll be rich one day. Just be patient. “But I reeeeaaallllyy want them.” “I know, baby. It’s hard to want things.” Head down, deep sigh. I was defeated. The money in my bank account that I’d gotten for graduation had shrunk down to nearly nothing. I couldn’t even afford a pair of shoes. That marked the official start of my job search. I was done taking time off. I was done enjoying the summer. I wasn’t enjoying it anymore anyway. Because we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl. Patrick left for another trip at the end of that weekend. I used the last of my money to put gas in my car – just a quarter of a tank – and to buy resume paper and envelopes. My phone rang as I was walking out of Office Depot. Mommy. “Hi Whits!” “Hi Mom. How are you?” “I’m fine. How are you?” “I’m good,” I lied. “Doing really well.” “That’s good. How’s Patrick?” “He left for another trip. He’ll be gone two weeks.” “Awww, you per thing,” she said. “I’m sorry.” “It’s ok, Mom, I’m fine.” “Do you need anything? Do you need money?” I did. “No. I’m fine.” “I can put it in your account.” “It’s ok, Mom, I’ll be fine.” I wouldn’t be. I ate popcorn and toast for next three days. “Ok, sweetie, I’m at the barn now, so I’m gonna go. I love you.” “I love you too, Mom.” “Bye.” “By-” She hung up before I even finished. I missed my mom. I climbed into my car and collapsed onto the steering wheel, crying. … I sat on the floor of my living room watching reruns of “Friends” on one of the only two channels we had. The living room was also the dining room, office and storage closet of our 550-square-foot apartment. With my laptop on my lap and the printer just beside me, one by one I addressed the labels for prospective employers, filling each envelope with a resume, cover letter and a link to my janky website that I have since taken down. Side note – I took it down about a year ago when my boss said, “dude, you work online. With websites. And you actually put your name on this piece of crap. Take it down. Immediately. For the love of all things SEO.” I might be exaggerating. There was something so cathartic about going to the post office and letting the envelopes drop one by one into the bin of outgoing mail the next morning. Signed, sealed, delivered. It was out of my hands now. I’d hire me, I thought. I took Kya for a long walk, thinking about how despite everything, I really loved my life. I liked living in Florida. I didn’t need friends, or money, or cable TV, or even to see my mom every day. I wanted to live with Patrick more than any of those things. And I wanted those shoes. Kya and I rounded a corner and passed another dog, Elvis, and his owner – a goofy, middle-aged man wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and a bucket hat. I greeted them, continued on my walk and my train of thought: it’s GOOD to want, I thought. This is the kind of character-building experience that makes me grateful. And you can imagine what I bought when I got my job and started getting paychecks. That was almost two years ago, and they’re still one of my favorite pairs. I wore my Sketchers to work today. I like wearing them because it reminds me of a time when I knew what I wanted, and that made it easy even through the hard parts. I wore my Sketchers today because I woke up this morning and didn’t know what my name was. Because I still don’t. Because I get mail addressed to two different names and I don’t know what that means. Because I don’t know which one feels more right and that makes me feel lost. Because Patrick was wrong when he said it was hard to want things. Because wanting is easy. You find something you want, you work for it, you get it. Or sometimes you don’t. But at least there’s a process. When you aren’t sure what you want, well, that’s hard. Yesterday I wanted to be Hoyt. Today I want to be Wilkes-Krier. And who knows what I’ll want to be tomorrow. Wanting things is easy. It’s not knowing what to want that’s hard. Feeling unsure. Being lost. That’s hard. So today I wore my Sketchers, because sometimes it better to just focus on what’s easy.
I changed my email signature today. I changed it for about the 19th time since I got married. It went from “Whitney Hoyt” to “Whitney Wilkes-Krier” to “Whitney (Hoyt) Wilkes-Krier” then back to “Whitney Wilkes-Krier” to “Whitney Hoyt WK” to “Whitney Hoyt Wilkes-Krier” and now I’ve come full circle. Today I changed my signature back to “Whitney Hoyt.” I don’t know why I feel a bit as if losing my name means losing a piece of myself. When I look at “Hoyt” without “Wilkes-Krier,” I’m sad at the thought of not taking Patrick’s name. I’m not frustrated because of the pressure to go one way or another, in fact, I think I’m frustrated by the lack of pressure. No one is telling me to change my name, no one is telling me not to. What it comes down to is I have an extremely difficult time picking out clothes in the morning. Wait, what were we talking about? Oh, right. I am not sure I’m physically capable of choosing one outfit to wear for the rest of my life. I’ve taken it upon myself to coax people into making the decision for me by asking them why they chose to or chose not to change their names. And while I think that yes, in the case of a divorce it will be easier if I don’t have to worry about changing my name back, I’m not actually planning on getting a divorce, but thanks anyway. Also, I’m not worried about not having the same last name as my kids because I have no kids. And my dog has no last name. (No last name… this might be the best idea yet. Thanks, Kya No Last Name). I’ve taken votes, polls, tabs, advice, suggestions and I can’t seem to come to a result that feels right. And when people ask, “Well, what does Patrick think?” The answer is NOTHING. I wish he felt strongly one way or another. I WISH it would hurt his feelings if I kept my own name. Because then at least I could drag my feet but feel as though he’s MAKING me. Like, “Yeah, I didn’t WANT to change my name, but my evil controlling husband absolutely MADE me. GARSH.” My sister Ashley would say, “Make a list.” Because that’s what we do. Time to pack? Make a list. Doing chores? Make a list. Not sure whether you think someone is ugly or pretty because that outfit could go either way? Make a list. And in this case, Ashley would say, “For the side in favor of ‘Wilkes-Krier,’ add ‘Because having a different name than your husband is silly.’” And then I add “Because she thinks having a different name than my husband is silly” to the List of Reasons Why Ashley is Strange. Other items on the list include: “Hands are always exceedingly dry AND exceedingly clammy” and “Snorts when she laughs and sometimes when she’s not laughing.” Ok, Ashley, let’s make a list. If I keep Hoyt, I get to keep my passport. The one that has my Costa Rica stamp. The one that has the ONLY stamp I’ve ever gotten. The one that is the ONLY passport I’ve ever owned. I also get to keep my social security card. The one that used to live in my mom’s filing cabinet in a file labeled “Whitney” where she also kept savings bonds that I got to deposit when I turned 21. On the other hand, I’ve already registered whitneywk@gmail.com, I like my “Whitney WK” signature better and so I sign it dozens of times every day for fun. Though this list really should be more like a Venn diagram because an argument in favor of “Hoyt Wilkes-Krier” would be that I’ve already ordered business cards that say “Whitney Hoyt Wilkes-Krier” and I’ll tell you, it might be a mouthful but that shit looks good on a business card. So you see why I’m troubled? Because none of my arguments even matter. Because all of the reasons I can come up with are as lame as having three last names. Internet, please make my decision for me. Thank you. Thanks to Megan Younger for sharing this one! Since I was a small child I dreamed about my perfect wedding day – the dress, the aisle, the attendants, the centerpieces, the way the events would unfold one by one until the night ended and I’d have memories of the greatest moments of my life. I’ve grown into an adult who demands perfection every day – from myself, from my life – and so to go into a wedding with such high standards was in a way setting myself up to be disappointed. A wedding is not unlike a choreographed dance where each person must do his steps in order to keep the whole thing moving smoothly: the baker, the caterers, the venue staff, the DJ, the photographer, the videographer, everyone. They all work together and play small parts in something big. Like that Honda commercial where one object rolls into another, which triggers another, which sets off something else, and the commercial continues with each part moving and keeping the energy moving smoothly in one direction. If one of those things was out of place, it would have sort of fallen apart. So the stress of planning a wedding falls onto the shoulders of all those little pieces, the cogs in the machine that have so much of my childhood dreams riding on them.
There were things I would change. If I were to redo my wedding day knowing what I know now, there are things I’d do differently. There were things that upset me. There were reasons I cried when I saw my photos. Sobbed. Because there weren’t enough poses, there were things that seemed to be off, or missing, or out of place. Because when I walked down the aisle, the first thing to cross my mind was, “Why are those two vases so close together?!” And what a damper that put on my perfect, perfect day.
Today marks the one-month anniversary of my wedding. And the more I look at the photos, the more I remember the fun I had that night, the more I realize that I did get the wedding I’ve always dreamed of. It was a day that was overflowing with joy, and a room full of people gathered there for Patrick and me and they danced their fucking asses off. And I couldn’t have dreamed of having more fun than that.
So even though my bridesmaids were scrambling to finish setting up just moments before the wedding, and even though I spent a small part of my reception rearranging furniture (that is, the furniture that actually made it there!), It was perfect because I got to marry Patrick. It was the best day of my life because I got to become his wife. Because when we got to Costa Rica and someone asked if I was traveling with my family, I said, “With my husband.” And no sagging photo booth backdrop could take away the overwhelming rush it gave me to finally call him that.
So here’s to knowing how to recognize a perfect day for what it is. And to be able to appreciate the memories that will forever remain among my fondest. Here’s to becoming Mrs. Wilkes-Krier. Here’s to dreams coming true.
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