A Yearning For a Nickname

I kind of hate to refer to a previous boyfriend when I have a current one, but the current one, Dan, won’t know, so my pangs of guilt will be minimal.

My only long-term boyfriend, Mike, had a nickname for me. I might have mentioned it somewhere in this blog, but maybe not. It was around the second month of our relationship he first called me “Kokomo”. I’m not sure where he came up with the name or its particular significance. One day he was in a good mood and in a moment of modest delight he called me Kokomo. It went something like, “I really like your salad dressing, Kokomo.” He could say silly, off-hand things so I did not think much about it at the time, but apparently he liked the sound of it because a day or two later I was once again Kokomo. Pretty soon I was “Kokomo” more often as I was “Katie”. It wasn’t long until I was occasionally not even Kokomo; I was “Koe”. It took a while, maybe a year or so, but eventually when referring to myself to Mike I’d state that I was Kokomo. I would leave Mike a message and say, “Hello, this is Kokomo…”

Early-on I never thought about whether I liked the departure of Katie, and the arrival of Kokomo. I did not have an opinion one way or the other. I just kind of shrugged and accepted it. But eventually I became fond of the nickname. No one in Mike’s world had he given a personal nickname. Kokomo was a tag of endearment.

I was Kokomo only in private. For a few years nobody knew I was Mike’s Kokomo except for Mike and me. When we were around others, Mike would call me Katie, but as soon as we were alone, I was Kokomo. Eventually a few friends and family members overheard the Kokomo moniker. But never once did anyone call me Kokomo but Mike. I was Kokomo to one person on earth. It was sad that at the end of our relationship, when things were not going so well, I again became “Katie”, and then at the very end I was just “Kate”. During those days I missed being Kokomo.

Anyway, it would not bother me a bit if Dan eventually, someday, put a nickname on me. As silly as it may sound, I would not complain if I were his Pippy, or Doodle, or BooBoo. I would know that the wacky name meant that I had my own special place in his life; a place of unique endearment, and that would not bother me a bit.