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I’ve been thinking a lot about identity lately.

It’s getting hard to keep track of many of my old Facebook friends from college, because each weekend seems to generate a new batch of last names. Changing my name after getting married was never really on the table for me as an adult — although if you peek into my diary from 8th grade, you will probably find rows of Brianne Morgan in experimental cursive. Poor Neil, I was quite obsessed.

I’ve never been close to my Mexican heritage, or my dad’s family, but my mom never changed her name and once I embarked on a career as a writer, I solidified my stance. Joe and I sometimes jokingly combine our last names, though, to collectively RSVP to things, and we get lots of mail addressed to The Jayjacks, which doesn’t bother me. I don’t think it will be very confusing until we have kids whose friends don’t know what to call me. Maybe by then, though, I won’t be in so much of a minority? I decided not to hyphenate based on the same conundrum presented here.

Choosing whether or not to keep or change a name is a totally personal choice — and one that I respect. Sometimes I miss that our tiny family can’t be referred to collectively under simple surname, or I feel like not changing gives the impression that I’m somehow not as committed. Which of course isn’t true.

Anyhow, more marriage, feminism and identity talk was inspired by our book club’s discussion of “The Marriage Plot,” which earned an average of about 6/10 from the crowd. (With a 2 and a 9 rating thrown in for good measure.) Even though I went to college post-’80s, the love triangle relationship angst and drama felt familiar in a way the an English major sets herself up to experience. I wasn’t enthralled with this book like I was “Middlesex,” to be honest. Few of us liked or were intrigued by the characters and their motivations, however much the Romantic women in the bunch (cough, cough) identified with the main character’s early 20s desire to save one guy and have another one who is totally devoted to her on the hook.

On the professional side, I started a new job this week. It’s strange — it feels like I spent the last year in PR in a rebound state after journalism. It’s the identity that brought me to this town in the first place, and how I met many of my friends. Having taken the past 12 months to switch gears and start my MPA and navigate how who I am off-paper translates to my relationship with the community, I’m inspired again. I’m looking forward to becoming part of the nonprofit sector and writing on the side. To live to write or to write to live?

It’s cold and rainy here, which might explain the longwinded musings. Off to pour another cup of coffee!

Oh, and more from various voices on the name-changing conundrum at A Practical Wedding. I’m so excited to participate in the APW book buy next week! (There’s a slight chance I’m quoted in it, too!)

It was windy in Chicago this weekend — appropriately enough — and as the gusts swept my hair up and kicked sharp little pebbles against my skin, it felt like the weather was in my brain and my brain was in the weather. My wise friend Arin talks about the busy times in all of our lives and smiles and shakes her head and it’s good to know that I’m not the only one caught up. Not by a long shot.

My dear friend Christa’s wedding has been on the calendar for ages, it felt like, and suddenly the weekend was there and it was all happening, quickly and slowly the then it’s back to the grindstone and the end of the semester and the last few weeks at this job (I know!) and the holidays and I’m trying to keep everything in balance and be truly present in each situation.

Sometimes this busy time feels like the final kick in a cross country race — amping the energy up because you know that soon you can stop running. And while you pump your arms a little harder and lengthen your stride, the faces of everyone cheering you on come into view. You’re riding on borrowed energy and it feels both amazing and terrible at the same time.

My eyes are on the week after Christmas, but I am also trying to remember that each day is a gift and each challenge is an opportunity, and that if everything doesn’t get checked off the list the world will not come crashing down.

Tuesday evening, I decided to hop on my bike and tag along with Joe and Andy on the taco ride from Des Moines to Cumming, Iowa. The weekly ride — in my mind, at least — was starting to reach a legendary status, with all the cool kids in town making the ritual trek. Now that the heat wave has broken, it made for a perfect post-work cruise down the Great Western trail. I’m not 100 percent sure of the history of the Des Moines taco ride, but I’m thinking it was inspired by the ride along the Wabash Trail on Thursday nights in Western Iowa.

Tacopocalypse: Worth the ride.

I love how the Great Western Trail is a rails to trails project, so it’s pretty flat, and that we saw a spindly legged, spotted fawn and two horses (one of which I’m still halfway convinced was a unicorn) in a meadow, but that in one strange segment riders wind through a golf course. The final destination for us was the Cumming Tap, where Tacopocalypse transforms a small town dive into a popup gourmet experience once a week (it’s only Tuesdays in summer, right, Sam?)

We grabbed a pitcher of Fat Tire and one of each: veggie chorizo, curried pork cheek, braised pork and one other scrumptious selection that I probably ate before I could save to my memory. In retrospect, the only thing I would change about the tacos would have been to order eight instead of four. They’re petite in the authentic way, and you can’t just have one. We shared a table with two random (pretty funny) guys, devoured the food and headed back to town.

Crossing my fingers it's a long, warm fall.

There’s something a little dreamlike about leaving the city limits and meeting up with plenty of people you know, in an alternate realm where the golden light makes everyone look more like a movie star, Spandex is a good choice for attire,  you know the guy responsible for the creative food, there’s no fuss — and there just maybe a unicorn kneeling in a meadow.

*Yes, that post title was inspired by a mildly inappropriate 2008 Shawn Johnson Ortega commercial.