Mrs. Who?

I was reading over on my favorite blog of all time Pioneer Woman and she was featuring an old cookbook posted by the women of her home town during her childhood. She was giving the cookbook credit for the basis and start of her life of cooking. Now that she's publishing her own cookbook, it was nice for all of her readers (like me) to see where it all started. I'm sure we all have one of these spiral bound, community published cookbooks somewhere in our collection. I have two. One given to be for my bridal shower, by a nice older lady with a blond bun who wore perfectly pressed denim skirts and white blouses, published by the Junior League of Sacramento. I have used it often and love this cookbook. The other one I have that I love is the Sanchez Family cookbook, a collection of recipes from the descendants of my Great Great Grandparents.

In the Junior League cookbook that I have and the one PW featured on her blog today, the women submitted recipes using their husband's name. As in Mrs. John Rutherford and Mrs. Henry Albright. This seems so strange to me and I began to really contemplate my comfort level in regards to my identity.

It was very hard for me to give up being Amy Oliver. Amy Oliver was someone I liked. She was strong and funny. She played third base in softball and debated everything from politics to the creation of the earth. She slept in on weekends and liked to match her bubblegum to her outfit. Her eyebrows were untweezed yet surprisingly shapely. I didn't want to give her up. When I got married it took me 2 years to change my drivers license over to Amy Meeker. I wouldn't have changed it at all but it expired. I think that it is revealing that I still carry this old driver's license in my wallet. The one with the name Amy Oliver. My excuse is that I might have to prove somewhere that it used to me my name. It irritates me sometimes that my name is Amy Meeker. When I got this name, I didn't even know her, this Amy Meeker person. What if she turned into someone I didn't like? What if she didn't like sushi or Judy Blume books? It's been rough going for Amy Meeker sometimes...she figured out who she was along the way, but it was not without blood, sweat and tears.

I remember the first time someone referred to me as Mrs. Meeker. I looked at them blankly. They repeated my name. I looked over my shoulder for my mother in law. SHE is Mrs. Meeker after all. I called her that for months until she asked me to call her Marilyn. Surely, the person was looking for her. I can not, for the life of me imagine referring to myself as Mrs. Mike Meeker. Or if I was more pretentious Mrs. Major Mike Meeker. Or if I was really feeling insecure and feeling like a total loser Dr. and Mrs. Mike Meeker??? Oh good gravy, how awfully stupid that sounds.

So, internet, I ask you this. Is it strange that I find the idea of my identity being tied to the fact that I am Mike's wife insulting? I am proud of Mike. I like, no I love being married to him. But who he is and what he does for a living has nothing to do with me...Amy...the lover of Meg Ryan movies and cold, foggy beaches. After all...Mike Meeker is an entirely different person. He is good at math and likes country fried streak for crying out loud! I feel as though if I was okay with being called Mrs. Mike Meeker then it would be like announcing to the world that I was in fact... Mrs. Mike "I love video games and am a morning person" Meeker. I am none of these things. I am not thin and do not have eyes that crinkle when I smile. I am not analytical or fidgety. I don't swerve in and out of traffic. It creeps me out when I think about being Mrs. ANYBODY even though marrying Mike was the best decision I ever made.

I guess the morale of the story is that I'm glad times have changed. Even though I am a fan of many retro type things like Audrey Hepburn movies, red lipstick and pearls...I think it's a GOOD thing that we don't go around addressing ourselves by our husband's name. It just gives me the heebies.



Love,

Amy or Aim or Aims or Aimster but most definitely NOT Mrs. Mike Meeker. eeewww. it's just gross.