Adulting

Adulting

When we walked into our lawyer’s office in Westby today, I announced, “Hi, we’re the ones you advised not to get married, but we are,” and we sat down. Now we’re trying to make heads or tails out of what adults should do when marrying. As we like to put it, we’re adulting.

After collecting our legal names with middle initials, the lawyer asks for our address. We quickly glance at each other, then say, “Both our addresses?”

“No, where you’ll live once married.”

So we give him both our addresses.

“This isn’t a normal wedding,” I explain, then start backpedaling. “I mean, it is—we’ve been dating for nineteen years and we’re here because we’re getting married—but we’re not going to live together.”

After a pause, the lawyer continues: “What properties do you own?”

“One.”

He makes a note. “How many acres?”

“One. But everybody thinks I’m using more than an acre.”

Dane gives me the stink eye, and I sit back. “One,” I repeat.

The lawyer clears his throat. “What assets do you have?”

“None.”

So far, adulting is breezy.

After we finish at the lawyer’s office, we need to stop at the bank and do some more adulting before we head home. We’re committed to taking care of all our legal matters before our wedding next month.

At the bank, I confidently walk up to Amy and announce, “We’re getting married, and we have to do that thing.”

“What thing?” Amy asks. “I think you would see a lawyer or go to the courthouse.”

Dane’s still trying to translate my request into standard business English while I rattle on: “We’ve been dating for nineteen years. We met at Organic Valley.” And on I go, telling her our whole history.

Amy’s eyelids have started to droop when Dane finally steps in and says, “We need to make each other our beneficiaries on our accounts.”

Amy’s eyes open, and she smiles in relief. “Okay, that’s easy.”

Dane heads to the bathroom as I sign my forms, and Amy and another teller start preparing his. Just as Dane is approaching the counter, she asks me his date of birth, and I answer confidently, “9/12/56.” I look at Dane to make sure I have the year correct, and he about doubles over.

“Oh, do I have the year wrong?” I ask. Amy and the other teller laugh and ask, “How long have you known him?”

Dane finally spits out “52,” and the teller deadpans, “Well, she made you four years younger.”

Dane is still laughing too hard to speak, which starts me laughing too. Here I am, bragging about how long we’ve known each other, and yet I get his birth year wrong.

As the tellers continue chuckling, Dane finally stands up straight, waves his hand as if to clear the air, and says. “Nooo, that’s not even the right month or day!”

I’m dumbfounded. “Of course it is!” I say—and when he starts laughing louder, I can’t help laughing with him as I manage to add, “Isn’t it?”

Now the other teller questions Dane to see if he knows my date of birth, and to my chagrin, he spits it out correctly.

I finally get the month and date correct (December 18), but the year still has me baffled because, quite frankly, it has had me baffled for nineteen years. I thought Dane was four years older than me when we met, but it changed depending on the month. He was born in December, and I was born in May. Now I have to accept that he is actually six years older!?

I decide not to mention this to the laughing bank tellers.

As we leave the bank hand in hand, almost forty minutes later, I roll my eyes at Dane, and we bust out laughing again all the way through the parking lot. Then Dane gets in his car, I get in mine, and we drive home to our separate houses.

The whole way home, I’m grinning from ear to ear. It feels good to finally be adulting after nineteen years of dating.