The Real Ricky, My Ricky and Our March Madness

The real Rick Jackson let me down recently - way to blow our championship hopes on your Sweet Sixteen loss to sucky Butler, Orange! But my Ricky, formerly known as Larry, is still on the road to the championship. Yes, amazingly, Ricky and I are still going strong. I say amazingly because we are still on the bumpy road. Don't tell Ricky I said this, but other than a March Madness-related incident last week, it's been largely my fault. A lot has changed recently. I had a new job opportunity come up rather quickly in a new city and I took it. I didn't, in my heart of hearts, want to take it, but it was such a better job than the one Ricky and I had, I felt that I had to.

As soon as I accepted, I went into a minor depression. And my poor Ricky, he was supportive and encouraging of my leaving. He tried his best to get me excited about this new opportunity. I suppose what I really wanted was to him to say "Don't go!" but he didn't. He did tell me he didn't feel ready for me to leave, but he also said he was happy for me and he thought it was the right decision.

The job is in Washington DC, and I've been living in New York. It is initially only a three month contract, so the move might only be temporary. I made the decision to go before discussing our future with Ricky. That was my decision, and I promptly proceeded to punish him for it with excessive moodiness. But once Ricky and I talked about our mutual desire to stay together, our commitment to visiting each other and to continue to date exclusively, I cheered up a bit. He even came down to DC with me to look for apartments, and we had a great time on our first out of town trip together.

Even knowing our good intentions to stay together, my lingering uncertainty combined with the stress of the impending move caused me to break down and cry in front of him for the first time. I so wasn't ready to be that woman, but Ricky held me and wiped my tears and kissed my face and I couldn't help but think that he really is a keeper and we really are going to make it.

That happy, warm feeling quickly turned to a kind of panic. Am I going to marry Ricky? Mind you, he hasn't come close to asking, but still! I'm no spring chicken. I can't just be dating someone indefinitely with no thought of the future! He doesn't like vegetables. Can I really marry someone who doesn't like vegetables? Sometimes he drinks too much. Can I really marry someone who drinks too much? He refuses to floss regularly. Can I really marry someone who's probably going to lose all his teeth in 25 years? He's only about half an inch taller than me. Can I really marry someone I'm going to tower over in heels?

But then the other day I had a thought. Ricky made me a care package for my trip down to DC with all of my favorite snacks. He also gave me a card in which he wrote that after his initial resistance, I had become the most important person in his life. It was so sweet and I couldn't help but feel really, really lucky to have him. And for some reason I thought about arranged marriages. I realized that if my family had arranged a marriage between me and Ricky, and I didn't have a choice in the matter, how lucky I would feel. It would be the arranged marriage jackpot! I think I would live the rest of my life happy with Ricky, knowing how easy it would have been to end up with someone who made me miserable, instead of giving me chocolate/hummus/pita chip/Diet Pepsi care packages.

Well, I'm certainly not advocating arranged marriage. And we modern women, our expectations are so high, the billionaire-male model- star athlete-poet hybrid would have a hard time passing muster. When I let go of the fantasy of the always sensitive, never-in-a-million-years-put-a-basketball-game-before-spending-time-with-me-and-do-everything-I-want him-to-all-the-time man aside, Ricky is pretty special. But don't tell him I said so. I'm still trying to get him to eat more vegetables before I make up my mind about our future.