So you know how I said just two weeks ago that I’m not dead yet? I may have spoken a bit prematurely. You see, last weekend I lost my wedding band.
Yes, that wedding band.
The one that you exchange as part of your vows and represents a physical symbol of your love. I’ve lost it.
This is why we can’t have nice things.
What is surprising really is that K hasn’t crucified me yet. Maybe she’s a bit too distracted with work. Maybe she has other things on her mind. Whatever it is, I’m sure that she hasn’t forgotten that my wedding band isn’t on my finger. Not that I’m willing to remind her to scold me.
I’m married, not dumb.
And while I don’t know where it is, that doesn’t mean I’m not looking for it. I’ve already looked at all the usual places. Not on the hutch, my bedside table, nor in the bathroom. Next step is to tear the house apart. That’s not a job for the faint of heart.
Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do if I can’t find it. Buying a new one doesn’t appeal to me in the least. I’m too cheap. A tattoo? My job won’t allow visible tattoos. I can find something to replace it, but then it will always be a replacement. Every time I look at it, I’ll know that I screwed up and had to fix it somehow. That burns almost as much as knowing that K will chew me out once she has the time.
And what makes it worse is that it made a mysterious appearence over the weekend. My mother claims that she saw it on our hutch (a normal place for me to put it), but I’ve gone back and looked. No dice. I really just need to tear the house apart, but I don’t want to. But which do I want less? To tear the house apart or to have the wife yell at me for God-knows how long?
So I’m throwing a “find my wedding band” party. Who wants to come? I’ll provide beer and pizza and pop. All we need to do is find that damn ring.