The Weight of the Rings

I have a bad habit of taking off my rings when I put on hand lotion. I hate the feeling of the rings getting in the way of the self-soothing massage I enjoy as the lotion absorbs, not to mention that the lotion gets caught in the rings and makes them sticky, reducing their shine. I guess it’s not the habit that’s bad, since it gives me soft hands and clean rings, but the fact that I don’t have a “system,” as my husband John suggests, for always putting the rings in a place where I will remember to put them right back on. Hmmm… I need a system. Like the systems he has for so many valued or everyday items he doesn’t lose. Those intentional acts that help him avoid the potential for having to beat himself up for days or longer. Here’s the thing – opposites attract. Enough said.

Countless times in my life I find my soft hands with empty fingers, and after my heart skips a beat, I go on my search. I find them on the bathroom sink, kitchen counter, bedside table, maybe even in the little dish on my dresser, their actual intended home when not on my fingers. When I am out, going about my day, I try to remember to put them temporarily in the pocket of my jacket or pants, or in a small zipper pocket of my purse. The last option is usually the best choice for safe keeping. Ha! I may not have a system but sometimes my tactics make sense. Once (actually maybe twice) at my last big-office workplace, I noticed my empty fingers as I typed away at my computer. I walked quickly back to the Ladies room. Yup – right there on the countertop next to the communal hand lotion. Phew. I was happy to get them back before a companywide “lost and found” email needed to be sent out showing my carelessness.

None of my jewelry is immune to my innocent inattentiveness. I’ve been doing this forever, so this one I can’t blame on age. My husband bought me a beautiful gold bangle with small diamonds after our daughter was born (he’s not even a very traditional guy, so a “new mom” gift was unexpected, but he is a very thoughtful gift giver, lucky for me). As beautiful as it was, brushed gold with just the right amount of sparkle to not be too fancy, it was rigid and annoying to wear because it would get in the way, knock things, or make it hard to type. I’m sad to admit that I have no memory of when I last saw that sweet gift. He still brings it up sometimes, 21 years later. I’m most sad that I let him down. “Maybe we’ll find it when we move,” I say. But I think to myself it is more likely on someone else’s arm, randomly found by a lucky recipient after it was getting in my way.

On a recent afternoon, September 30 to be exact, John and I were in our car on the Upper West Side coming towards the end of a very hard day. Eight years prior, almost to the day, we opened our small business—the beginning of a new chapter in our lives at once extremely stressful and exciting (think early-40s, “now or never” moment). While our business isn’t over or gone for good, John did the last clean sweep of the now empty beautiful and beloved music studios and joined the list of so many small business owners who couldn’t make brick and mortar work during these pandemic times. Handing back the keys was the right thing to do, and this time the landlord did the right thing too. I had driven the car downtown to the studio to help him get through the very last tasks of this hard good-bye. I waited patiently until the last remaining items filled up our small wagon, and in my memory, I gave him a big “It’s going to be OK” hug before he got into the driver’s seat to go back uptown.

I was hungry, realized I never ate lunch, and I asked him to stop on Amsterdam Avenue so I could run in and get one of my favorite grab-and-go sandwiches at Orwashers. I got back in the car and, with just one bite, my bad habit made its harsh reality known. Empty left ring finger. The one that matters most. Engagement ring and wedding band. I couldn’t breathe.

“Fuck!” I said harshly (I hardly use the f-word, and will use it only once here, but in reality, this was a moment when it came out repeatedly). “I am so f-ing dumb!” I yelled. My anger and shame immediately loud and clear.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, confused by the intensity of my exclamations.

I showed him my empty finger. “How could I do this?? What is wrong with me??” How could I be so careless?? Why would I put my rings back on my right hand and not my left??”  Not today, I thought, I really, really don’t want to lose these rings today.

I started frantically searching my purse. “I put lotion on while I was sitting in the car waiting for you,” I explained. “I put the rings in my lap. I guess when you came out and I got up to open the hatch for you, I was only half done putting them back on my fingers.” I had no recollection of returning the right-hand rings from my lap to my finger, and clearly no idea that the more important left-hand rings remained in that precarious place, their fate potentially determined as I stepped out of the car. The search through my purse offered no resolution (I had to look, despite knowing I didn’t use that safe tactic this time), so he got out and looked under the seat, in the side door, in between the seats, everywhere, hoping two shiny objects would appear.

While in that moment my inner critic was raging at my carelessness and lack of “systems,” there are times when I defend my bad habits with this: I am more focused on people than things. I live in the moment as often as I can. I like to help people and feel needed. So, when John came out of the side door from the studio, his hands full with a big box, a small lamp, and maybe even a vacuum cleaner, I saw him and instinctually hurried out of the car to open the back. I was there for him. Patiently waiting despite my hunger and knowing this was a harder day for him than for me. That visual memory came back to me, as we desperately search the car. Then I imagined them falling from my lap in slow motion, like in a movie when something precious falls into a river never to be seen again. My rings lost forever because I was so eager to help my husband.

There was only one thing to do. We were on 82^nd and Amsterdam Avenue. There was very little traffic, but those 5.4 miles back to the corner of Clarkson and Hudson never felt so long. As we drove down the West Side Highway in the wrong direction (we were supposed to be heading north back to Connecticut, our mostly primary location during these empty-nest, now free of brick-and-mortar pandemic days), I was relatively silent; what I did try to say came out with a strained voice holding back tears. But I couldn’t actually cry, not yet. Not until I knew if they were really gone.

“They’re just rings” John said as he reached over and held my hand, keeping the other hand steady on the wheel. It was meant to be supportive, but I wasn’t sure I believed him in the moment. Nothing he would say could make me feel better. He had been disappointed by my lost jewelry before, but the significance of this was beyond measure.

During that tense car ride, I thought about another time when I couldn’t find my rings. It was at the end of a somewhat relaxing but strangely intense family vacation in Bermuda. Mostly intense for John, a very needed break for me. The kids, 10 and nearly 13 at the time, were happy to explore the pink sand beach and enjoy the magical open-air setting at every meal. With the studio under construction, it was hard for John to get away, but I forced upon him four nights of family time. He managed to enjoy it, the dark and stormy cocktails helped.

The quick getaway was coming to an end, and the porter had arrived to help us with our bags. “I can’t find my rings” I said, not too worried at first but feeling the time check for the flight. Bathroom, bedside table, under the bed, in my pockets. I started to panic a little bit more as everyone joined in the search. Turns out I was wearing pants that had that extra little area in the far inside of the pocket, towards the fly. You can put your hand straight down in the pocket and never feel something hiding to the side. Bingo! About the third time I put my hand in my pocket there they were. I felt pretty dumb, especially in front of the hotel staff, but we made it to the airport in plenty of time. What would be worse, I thought to myself now as time slowed down inside our car, losing my rings on a family vacation at the beginning of our new venture, or at its closing? Either way, there is something ominous in the connection. What if I lost one that day in Bermuda and one eight years later? My rings could book-end our business cycle, the lost symbols of our commitment entwined with its success or failure, and perhaps suggesting the fate of our marriage.

Having finally made the left turn onto Clarkson, John pulled up right behind the truck that had been parked behind me, I remembered it moving forward into our spot right as we drove away. I ran out of the car like a lioness saving its cub. Took a few second to look carefully on the ground, and then burst into tears. Two shiny round objects, right where the truck driver got out. How lucky I am that his boots came in contact with them, not his eyes.

John was standing by. He calmly wrapped his arm around me as I wept with joy and let go the shame. My turn for the “it’s going to be Ok” comforting hug. Those bands on my fingers felt a renewed sense of place. They would settle into my skin and make a slightly different groove. They are just rings after all, but for a moment they may have carried the weight of our marriage’s destiny.