When Husband and I first got married, he didn’t like to wear his wedding ring. It wasn’t anything nefarious, he just wasn’t comfortable wearing jewellery, and naturally I kicked up a fuss about it at every possible opportunity. So much so that he went out and had a ‘J’ tattooed on his ring finger, just to show that while he didn’t like to wear a ring, he was 100% committed and taken. He shouldn’t have needed to do this, but I’m an insecure maniac, so I’m grateful that he did. As it turns out he started wearing his ring anyway, some time around Sausage being born I think, so he has both a permanent and a removable reminder of me, 24/7!
Because of my underactive thyroid, despite the fact that I’m medicated, my hands and feet still swell up so I don’t know if my rings are going to even fit me from one day to the next. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve gone to sleep with my ring on and woken up with swollen hands and a purple ring finger, only to have to rush to the bathroom and the liquid soap dispenser to try to get my mini-tourniquet off. As a result, I tend to be not wearing my ring more often than I am, and around the house it’s not so bad but when I go out, I feel naked without it. I’m rather slapdash with where I leave it too, it can be found anywhere from the serving hatch (yes, we have a serving hatch…) to the bookshelf, to Husbands desk, to the bathroom shelf, to the floor next to my bed.
Only, that’s the problem. It can’t be found at all anymore. I have lost my wedding ring.
I lost it a couple of months ago and have been frantically searching for it ever since. I even put off telling Husband that I couldn’t find it, in the hope that I’d find it before I had to confess. I was almost hoping that he was doing one of those mean, but ultimately well-meaning, pranks that people on American sit-coms do, where he walks into a room, finds my ring on the floor, picks it up, pulls a few over-the-top facial expressions to camera, and then hides it and revels in my agony at trying to secretly find it. But no, Husband is not that mean and my ring is definitely lost.
Aside from the fact that I’m abso-fucking-lutely gutted at having lost my ring, it’s compounded by the fact that it made it all the way to the bloody Maldives and back, unscathed, but I can’t keep an eye on in it in a small bungalow in the South East of Essex. Then, there’s the judgement. I must add, this is absolutely just an imaginary perceived judgement that I project onto others, but in my head, when I’m walking along with Sausage, EVERY SINGLE PERSON we walk past checks my ring finger and does an audible ‘TUT’ when they see that it’s naked. Especially when I go to Waitrose. You know what a lot of Waitrose shoppers are like. Older, conservative, JUDGEMENTAL. (Obviously not all Waitrose shoppers are like this, I shop in there occasionally and I’m a young, liberal, seemingly unmarried mother…). I feel like I want to walk around with a sign around my neck which says ‘I AM married, you know’. In fact, if I ever find myself conversing with a stranger, I do tend to slip in the odd “Oh, my Husband this and my Husband that…” just to really hit the message home. And it’s ridiculous, because A) so fucking what if I was an unmarried mother? and B) I don’t give the tiniest shit what the lady on the Lottery counter in Waitrose thinks she knows about me. I must have this one little, minute corner of my brain, which judges unmarried mothers and secretly yearns to dress in John Lewis slacks and an ancient Hermes scarf.
The long and short of it is, my poor little finger feels naked. I’d love another ring to replace the old one, and Husband has offered, but who can warrant just going out and splashing cash on a replacement wedding ring that you were stupid enough to lose, when you have an almost-three-year-old with a birthday coming up? So, for now, my finger will remain sad and naked.
Maybe I could draw a ring on…?