My, what a gayngled web we weave.

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Not too long ago,  my lobster and I hatched our idea to tour all the states and countries that practice marriage equality and to tie the knot in each locale. If marriage equality won’t come to us, then we’ll go to it!

A pipe dream most likely, given cost and the fact that, according to recent calculations,  two-thirds of our monthly income goes to rent and groceries. Still, we might make it happen. For sure, we’ll start in Iowa this summer. It’s close enough to our home state, geographically and culturally, and many of my relatives, e[strange]d as they are, still live there, so it’s familiar. I called the clerk of courts last week to ask how to apply for a marriage license.

Me:  Hi there. I’m calling from Wisconsin to find out how to get married in Iowa.

Him:  Oh, absolutely, you called the right place. Tell me — do you and your, um, your fia–, the gr–, um, your br–, your partner know when you want to be married?

At no point in the conversation did I indicate that my lobster happens to be a girl. (And, to be safe, I didn’t mention that I wanted to marry my ‘lobster’. That would’ve opened an entirely different can of bestial worms.) He must’ve guessed that because I was calling from out of state, I must not be able to marry in my own state and, therefore, must want one of those headline-making ‘gay marriages’. I laughed and thanked him for his willingness to use inclusive language. He laughed back and said that there’s a lot to learn and, as he said it, I pictured him there in his office tans, forehead beading sweat, doodling around the mandala Americana formed by months of morning coffees in the upper right-hand corner of his desktop calendar.

We do not need to reside in Iowa to be married there, so that’s good. We cannot, however, be married anywhere else to be eligible for an Iowa marriage license. This brings into question our future Tour de Marriages. Let’s say we get married in Iowa and, someday, Wisconsin sees the light and begins to practice marriage equality. Assuming Wisconsin has this same rule about not being married elsewhere, does that mean we won’t be able to wed in our home state because we’re already wed in Iowa? If so, bummer. I suppose that once marriage equality comes to Wisconsin, we could get divorced in Iowa so that we could get married in the state where we were both born, where we’ve both been residents for 35 and 31 years, where our families have farmed, lived, and gone to school for generations, and where we plan to shout into each others’ hearing aids swinging on the porch in fifty or sixty years. Divorce isn’t such a big deal, is it?

And speaking of divorce, I sure hope the 18,000 same-sex couples in California who are allowed to remain married got it right the first time because if they divorce, they’re not allowed the same second chance at happiness, with each other or someone else, that between 54-78% of heterosexuals take when they divorce. At least not in California or 43 other states.

Then there’s the question of names. On the Iowa marriage license application, there’s space to indicate whether or not we want to change our last name(s). If Jenn and I wanted to change our last names, like so many legally married couples do, and we do so as a legally married couple in Iowa, would our new last name be recognized in Wisconsin, or just in Iowa? Would it be recognized by the federal government? How many social security cards do they want us to carry?

Thankfully, we’re spared this headache because we already changed our names through the courts in Wisconsin two years ago, apart from the institution of marriage. It only cost us $700 and three months to do it. And the clerk of courts in the rural county courthouse where we had it done only burned holes into the sides of our heads for a minute or two. It was really important to us that we have the same last name as our kids.

Thinking about these questions stirs one of my most vivid memories of childhood. I was 9. We lived in a small town, family owned and operated. We trick-or-treated in the dark, took swimming lessons at the outdoor pool every summer, and never locked the doors or windows at night. It was a gorgeous, bluebird Saturday morning. My mom handed me two dollars to ride uptown to buy a bar of soap. As I pedaled up Court St. (no, the irony is not lost), I came up with a little song. I do this still, while I’m cooking, cleaning, showering, driving — I’m always making up songs. Unlike all the others, the one I made up that day stays with me 23 years later. It went like this.

Today is the day/
That I let you know I love you/
Today is the best day of my life/
Today is the day/
That I let you know I care about you/
So will you please become my wife?

That was it. I was 9 and that was my reality. And it remains my reality 23 years later.

Never did I imagine, at 9 or any other age, how complicated it would be to fulfill my dream of being married. Simply married.

I pedaled and hummed and imagined a commitment, one modeled on my parents’ and grandparents’ commitments. I certainly did not imagine the tangled web we have now, which makes it almost impossible to know where and when I’m permitted to fulfill my dream. what limitations there are on said dream, and how long it will last before I wake up and it’s gone because some group of people I’ve never met said so. I mean, how do you put that to a melody?

As of now, our plan is to get legally married in Iowa sometime this summer. But I cannot quiet the questions. Part of me feels that getting married in Iowa would feel like the truest act of my life.

And part of me feels like getting married in Iowa would feel like quicksand. Not because of me, my lobster or the commitment we’ve made to one another.

Because of everything else around us.

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