In my former life, back before I had a kid and became a yoga teacher and started a cuss-filled feminist blog, I worked in the financing department of a large international bank. A few months after I started working there (and, coincidentally, a few months after I got married), one of the higher-ups was chatting me and my coworkers up when, out of nowhere, he said:
“Anne, is Thériault your married name or your maiden name?”
Flustered, I replied, “It’s just my regular name.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, totally nonplussed.
“I mean… it’s the name I was born with? I didn’t change my name when I got married, if that’s what you want to know.”
“So it’s your maiden name,” he said, his tone landing somewhere between condescending and wink-wink-I-get-it-you’re-making-a-joke.
But I wasn’t making a joke – I actually do really hate the term “maiden name”…
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