The Problem That Has Two Names FIFTY years after Betty Friedan's "Feminine Mystique" and countless principled-but-unwieldy hyphenated names later, the problem of married versus maiden names should be good and solved. But many women are still caught in an in-between purgatory: why have to choose? Like others wanting it both ways, I held on to my professional name while also taking on my husband's. For years, I've gone by both, fearing that at some point I will be called out or, worse, arrested. Though I moved my last name to my middle, this has left me in a muddle: Under what name do I travel? Who pays taxes? What if I, er, still haven't switched over my Social Security card? These are questions that for 10 years I've been unable to answer. In an era in which identity theft is the ultimate crime, I skulk around on a regular basis fearing that somehow, my other-named double is getting me in trouble. Academics refer to us as "situational name users." According to several studies, the number of women who keep their names after marriage peaked in the 1990s, falling from 23 percent to roughly 18 percent a decade later. Women are marrying, at older ages, on average five years into their postcollegiate careers. They've already established professional reputations and networks of contacts who know them by their given names. Setting aside the shoulds and the whys behind which name to pick, the obvious answer for the ambivalent is to use both. What exactly does this mean? Officially, a passport is supposed to match a person's driver's license, Social Security card, paycheck and tax returns. The I.R.S. is pretty clear that if newlyweds take their spouse's names, they need to change their Social Security card and file taxes under the new name. This could cause problems processing a return or delay a refund. But lining up all the paperwork can be arduous. Moreover, you can get away - most of the time - with letting a document here or there go. For several years after I married, I traveled blithely with a passport (professional name) that didn't match my driver's license (married). This worked even post-9/11, as I traveled in and out of Kennedy Airport. It wasn't until I took a reporting trip to rural West Virginia, eight and a half months pregnant with my third child, that the disparity caused a problem. The boarding agent at the Charleston, W.Va., airport took one look at my mismatched ticket and identification form and shuffled me into an ominous unmarked room. Images of giving birth in downtown Charleston swirling in my head, I was released after 40 minutes of panicked phone calls. For the most part, my two-name status doesn't get in the way of major life events even if it results from one. But that doesn't release me from other minor entanglements. Building security guards often usher me in to work appointments with my married name emblazoned on a temporary-ID card, or calls up to whomever I'm meeting asking if they're expecting a person they've never heard of. Even on the home front, the double-identification system has its tripwires. Which name should I use at my children's schools? How do we register for the school auction, and should I have my credit cards changed as well? Can my husband get away with using my Costco card, and how on earth do we straighten out matters with Zipcar? My young children are all in a permanent state of confusion about the bylines they see under one name and the family name we use at home. Isn't our shared name part of what unites us as a family? Why would I want to set myself apart? Recently, my 4-year-old rather poignantly declared that he wished his first name were Paul. On occasion, I find myself reading emotional tea leaves into which name my husband uses when referring to me. Shouldn't the anniversary dinner reservation be under our shared name? Why did he write a check for me made out to "Pamela Paul"? Given my family history, I should have this sorted by now. When my mother divorced my father nearly four decades ago, she had established a career in advertising under her married name and kept it. So when my father remarried, to a woman with the same first name, his new wife couldn't take his name - if she wanted to - unless she wanted the same name as his ex. Moreover, I was briefly married while in my 20s to someone else. Then, too, I changed my name, only to change it right back a year later. Processing the paperwork lasted longer than the actual marriage. For now, I continue to use the two-name system, feeling like a comical yet suspect figure out of Dostoyevsky. Don't ask me to reveal my secret alias now - if I ever decide to one day write a detective novel, I'll already have my pseudonym. Pamela Paul is the editor of The New York Times Book Review.