I saw my fiance off at the bus station. He insists on taking Greyhound because it's cheaper.

"But there's no way you're taking it by yourself," he said. "One guy told me I was couragous for bringing my laptop."

"Why?" I asked.

"'Some people kill for tennis shoes. Imagine what they'd do for a laptop,' he told me. Another person behind me only talked about how much he hated Christians and what he'd like to do to one. Yeah, you're not taking the Greyhound."

And you're not either, punk.

So I've had three days without him now. This seems like a piece of cake compared to the three month stretches we went without seeing each other. The moments that are difficult are when I'm at my friends' house, watching a movie. Mike slips his arm around Rachel and I remember what it feels like to cozy up to someone's side. They've been married for nearly three months now. It's hard not to be slightly jealous, even though it doesn't make sense.

Another strange thing is this business of changing my last name. I suggested I hyphenate it.

"No, I want to be our own family," he said. "I want you to have my last name."

Why don't we get to create our own unique last name? Or why don't we both hyphenate our last names to reflect both of our family's? Why just his?

My brother is aghast that I would change my last name. "You can't change it! There aren't enough of us in the world."

It's true that, unlike the Smiths and Johnsons out there, my last name is unique to my relatives alone. (In fact, I was able to acquaint myself with a second cousin...thanks to our unique last name and Google.)

I won't miss the continual mispronunciation of the name, the time it takes to write my signature, the breath wasted on spelling it out once or twice for customer service. But I'll miss the uniqueness, that special something that says "I am part of this family."

I'll miss being able to say my family name in a certain circle of acquaintances and be told "I knew your mother," or "your dad and I were in Morocco together, tell him I say Hi."

Another thing about singleness that I am enjoying is that I can go to bed and wake up at any time I please. When my roommate is gone, I can leave a few dishes in the sink, I can keep my "office" on the kitchen table, I can eat random food at weird hours of the day.

Being married will grow me up even more. Parenthood is the final death to my childhood, but marriage puts me on the doorstep.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm thrilled to spend my life with him, thrilled I'll get to wake up next to him, expectant that we'll have an exciting life traveling and meeting people all over the world.

The intangible.... It's this knowledge that I am entering a new kind of life, a life that won't allow me to be selfish, a life that expects--no, requires--me to think of someone else above myself. For this to work, both of us will need to do this. It's the confirmation of the covenant of love.

What frightens me about marriage isn't the finality of choice. It's the necessity of a small death, I think. The giving of myself, the opening up to someone with no hiding places, the tearing down of any remaining walls. The frightening thing of marriage is allowing myself to be entirely known, wholly loved.

It's the end of the "nebulous."