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Once her wedding was over, reporter Cara Froedge had to tackle her next obstacle: changing her name in a myriad of official places, including her driver's license, Social Security card, credit cards and passport. NEWS&GUIDE PHOTO / BRADLY J. BONER

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I asked my boss for a day off to go to Idaho to change my name.

Yes, he said. And then he told me: “I think you’re the only Jackson woman ever to change her name.”

On Nov. 6, I drove to the closest Social Security Administration office, in Idaho Falls, Idaho – the other choice was Rock Springs – to fill out paperwork officially changing my name from Cara Froedge to Cara Rank.

I wish I could say the decision was based on pure devotion to my husband, Spencer. Of course, I’m proud to take his name and let everyone know we’re partners. But let’s be real: This is about vanity.

Froedge has never been easy. My troubles started 31 years ago when my parents were naming me.

They described reading aloud from a book of baby names, testing how the little girls’ names sounded with Froedge. They went through every letter in the alphabet. Andrea Froedge. No. Jennifer Froedge. No. Whitney Froedge. No.

They finally tried Cara, and it seemed to work. They liked that it means “friend” in Welsh. Or maybe, my dad said, they liked it because they were accustomed to saying a similar name, Sara Froedge. Yes, my mom’s name is Sara.

Why reinvent the wheel?

I guess I was relatively lucky growing up. I was never picked on for big ears or a funny nose, but I’ve had too many nicknames to count: Frojay, Froggy, Fredgy and The Refroedgerator (my husband’s favorite).

I envied best friends with good last names: Young, Cooper, King, Chatman, Hastie and Holst. My college boyfriend’s last name was Lopatka. That relationship was doomed from the start, poor guy.

I had my name mispronounced during the most important events of my life: first Communion, eighth-grade graduation, high-school graduation and college graduation (from the English department).

Thus, when I got my first job making cold calls for my dad’s insurance business, I developed a phone routine.

“Please tell so-and-so that Cara Froedge called.” I said. “F as in Frank, R-O-E-D-G-E. As in Fro-Edge.” My dad taught me that one.

He also encouraged me to drop the Froedge but keep my middle name, Collier, after I was married in September.

“I have no problem with you changing your name,” he said last week. “I get tired of spelling it, tired of explaining what the origin is.”

Maybe things could have been different.

Froedge is the second spelling of our family name. Sometime between 1851 and 1875, a Samuel S. Frogge changed his name to Samuel S. Froedge.

“Nobody knows why it was changed,” my dad said. “I can only assume that he probably tried to change it phonetically and messed it up. Or maybe he was tired of being called Froggy.”

It hasn’t all been bad. At my first newspaper job in Statesville, N.C., a man saw my byline and called the office. Turns out, he was a distant cousin of my dad’s. With such an uncommon name, he knew we were related.

He and his wife later came over for dinner.

Still, I always knew I would change my name after I was married. Even though my maiden name is floating around on hundreds of stories in cyberspace, magazine archives and newspaper clippings, I figured the sooner I make the switch, the better.

“I have to do it before I get my first New Yorker byline,” I told a friend.

With the one-page document from the Social Security Administration, a notarized copy of my marriage license and my driver’s license, I went to Idaho Falls. I was told the process is painless, that it takes just minutes.

But the office was packed. I was number 59. Number 52 was sitting at the glass window. With every seat full, I leaned against a wall and waited.

If I could dispense any advice, it’s this: Don’t go to a Social Security office during a recession. It’s depressing. I overheard a conversation between three women who must have been my age. They were dressed in black. One even wore burgundy fuzzy slippers.

“What should I do?” the slippered gal asked her friend, who had a knife tattoo that wrapped around her neck.

“Try to get everything you can,” the friend told her. “Tell them the baby’s daddy isn’t around, that you can’t afford clothes or food for your baby. Get everything you can out of them.”

OK, I concede. My problems could be a heck of a lot worse.

I got my new Social Security card Friday. Next, I just have to get a new driver’s license and passport. Then I have to change my name on my two checking accounts, two personal credit cards and a business credit card. Then there’s the insurance: health, AFLAC, auto and homeowners. And speaking of my condo, I guess I’ve got to switch my name on the warranty deed, the mortgage and the cable bill.

Then there’s a savings account, a cell phone account, a retirement account. Oh, and the title to my Subaru. Sheesh. Do I have to change it on the magazine subscriptions?

And after all this, you’ll never believe what happened.

“So your new last name is Ranck?” a source said on the phone. “Is your husband part of the local Ranck family?”

“No,” I said. “They have a C in their name. Mine is R-A-N-K.”