So I finally found my wedding ring. Yesterday, as I was putting laundry away, it peeked up at me through a fuzzball on the carpeted closet floor. Following the bright little sparkle with my eyes, I knelt down and captured it with that rush of relief one always feels upon recovering a lost item. (I am keenly familiar with this feeling, as Losing Items is one of my special talents.)
As the day wore on and my initial relief passed, I tried to put a finger on my feelings. I am happy. No really, I am. I suppose this means that I will not be getting a new wedding ring after all. I suppose this means that I will not have to endure viewing row after row of glass-encased diamonds, deciding which size and sparkle suits my needs best. (You know how hard decisions are for me. Who needs it?)
I suppose this means Derrick won’t have to take out a loan to prove his enduring love to me and that I won’t have to wag my left hand up and down, up and down to say hi to all the girlfriends I run into at Walmart. I suppose this means that I can prove to myself, once again, that I am not greedy and materialistic. No really, I am not.
Such a relief. Who needs a carat when you’ve got .3? Who needs the latest designs and settings when you’ve got the best 1995 had to offer? Who needs the diamond that your husband can buy you now when you’ve got the diamond he could afford as a junior in college? Really, I’m too busy to be bothered.
And so happy to have my old ring back. No really. I am.