I lost my wedding ring the other day. It was only for a short time and everything is fine now, but while it was gone, I learned a few things about myself.
I was running at our local track last weekend with my husband when my hands started to swell up a bit with the heat and exertion. I tugged at my ring thinking I’d just take it off for a second. I was being very careful about removing it, but, I had to tug so hard to get it off that the ring flew out of my hand and rolled, quicker than any object has ever rolled, into the teensy tiny, 1/2 inch thick grate at the base of the track. There it rested about 8 inches below. It was well out of my reach, but the sun made it glint just enough to tell me where it was.
My first reaction? Did I calmly start to formulate a plan to retrieve the ring? Did I ponder in a Zen-like way that the ring was only a piece of jewelry (I should tell you my husband and I wear matching etched bands, so no diamonds were involved here) and losing it doesn’t mean anything other than that I lost a piece of metal? Nope. I, in all my 34-year-old maturity, burst into tears like a toddler.
It’s hard to describe how utterly lost I felt in those moments. That ring, I realized, means more to me than any other possession I own, no matter that I own other things that have higher monetary value. That ring was my physical acknowledgment of my love for Johnnie and that we wore matching ones was indescribably important to me. That ring went on my hand almost 7 years ago and I want to die with the very same one on my finger and no other could replace it. I stood there crying, waiting for my husband to come help me rescue it.
He did, by the way, with a very MacGyver-esque move that actually involved chewing gum and a straw. Not kidding. I jumped in his arms when he pulled it out of the grate and hugged him for minutes. I could not have been happier if you’d given me a million dollars.
Is that silly? Am I overly attached to a stupid, petty circle of silver? Maybe, but just try to wrestle it off my finger.