One evening in early January, Matthew turned to me with a dejected look and announced that his wedding ring was likely gone for good, either stolen from his desk at work (less likely) or permanently lost after falling out of/off of his key ring, wallet, pocket, or one of the other places he stashed it when it felt uncomfortable on his finger.
My reaction? Eh [insert shoulder shrug here].
A few years ago, after insisting that I did not want an engagement ring in any way, shape, or form, we turned to debating wedding rings. To have or not to have?
On the one hand, wedding bands are a very traditional symbol of marriage (and all that implies, as far as love, commitment, partnership faithfulness, etc.) in our society. On the other hand, it’s just a ring — I don’t want an object defining our relationship.
If have, what kind of material? Traditional gold, silver, and/or platinum, obtained in ways that exploit people and the earth? Used rings or recycled metal? What about wooden rings?
After investigating various options, we went fairly traditional with gold bands in a Celtic knot design. Though I’m not sure exactly why (though I think cost was a factor), I’m pretty sure the gold is run-of-the-mill dirty gold, a fact of which I am not proud.
So, while I like wearing my ring, and could see that Matthew was distressed, I found it hard to get too upset, and harder still to seriously consider replacing the lost ring, especially given that there was a decent chance the replacement would just get lost anyway. If we started down the road with replacements, where would we draw the line? I feel guilty about the first purchase, why repeat that decision?
In the meantime, Matthew hunted through various pockets, to no avail. I decided maybe it would turn up when we moved, and, if not, eh. And then, over the weekend, The Dude came down with some sort of stomach bug and coated Matthew’s lounging/pajama pants in diarrhea.
Bet you didn’t see that one coming. Once you have a baby, poop comes up in the most unexpected places.
Anyway, the ring was not in the diarrhea.
But, the next morning, Matthew pulled out a pair of sweat pants that he rarely wears, and, as he unfolded them, something hit the wood floor with an unmistakable metallic sound. We looked at each other, and he said, “I know that sound,” and then we both looked at the floor.
Nothing in sight, so I grabbed a flashlight. We dropped to the floor, and there, way back in the dusty corner, underneath a portable cabinet thingy, sat Matthew’s wedding ring.
We fished it out, I slipped it on his ring finger, and we sealed the deal with a kiss. Some shitty tales have happy endings.