Well, it’s true. If you’re a single gal in New York City, the best way to find a husband is to move. Far away. After moving to California in August – I immediately started dating a great guy who, not-so coincidentally, has been friends with my brother for over 15 years.
As of March 1, I am Mrs. Cara Downs.
When I told my parents I would be changing my name, they were very, very, very, very thrilled. Worth is not my maiden name. For some reason, I’d been hanging onto my ex-husband’s name for 10 years. It’s just easier than Gizzarelli. People have a hard enough time with Cara without me having to spell out Gizzarelli on top of it.
At a certain coffee chain that shall remain nameless, (Hint: it rhymes with CarChucks), where they try to make you feel like you’re at home by taking your name and calling it out when your drink is ready … the barristers yell out, “Carol!? Skinny latte!” Or, “Laura!!! Skinny mocha!! …. Laura? LAURA!!!?” And my favorite, “Paris! Chai latte!” How one gets ‘Paris’ out of ‘Cara’ I’ll never know.
Aside from the name change (which still isn’t completely official … there are many hoops to jump through), the biggest adjustment to marriage is that someone is watching and getting to know my Inner Freak.
I’d been living on my own, in the concrete jungle of New York City, for 10 years. I’m used to putting things down and finding them where I left them. I’m used to eating a whole pint of ice cream without someone staring at me in fear. I’m also used to having full conversations with my cat, something I’m not entirely proud of because at a certain age it starts to be really sad. At 25 it’s kind of cute. At 35 you may consider therapy. Nearing 40 … you’re starting to be that lady that children are afraid to visit on Halloween. Don’t get me wrong, I still talk to the cat. She just doesn’t answer me much anymore.
My Inner Freak also doesn’t understand why my husband won’t allow me to hang up my framed Cheap Trick albums. What? Stop looking at me like that! THEY’RE REALLY COOL LOOKING! They remain neatly rested against a bare wall in our apartment. They’re waiting for him to weaken and acquiesce. Besides, if his Inner Freak can have a huge framed photo of Hank Aaron in our bedroom, why can’t the product of my Inner Freakdom be prominently and proudly displayed? Isn’t that what marriage is all about? Accepting each other’s Freakishness?
My Inner Freak also has me up and awake at 6AM on Saturdays. The naked wall is calling to me. The husband’s Inner Freak has him sleeping far into Saturday mornings (although, that’s actually quite normal from what I’m told). The hammering of the nails won’t even wake him. {Insert evil Freakish giggle here.} Ah, marriage.