Today is the first day that I’ve forgotten to wear my wedding ring. I think that means that I can act as if I were never married. Right? Yes? Thanks internet, I love you.
And though I’d like to make jokes about how I’m happy to be free of the tiny shackle into which I’ve been conscripted against my will, I actually miss the stupid thing.
It’s really been nothing but trouble for me since I first put it on. I have to take it off whenever I do anything like wash the dishes, or mow the lawn, or wrestle wild wildebeests to the ground. And whenever I wash my hands I have to take the ring off and dry my ring finger and the ring itself thoroughly so that it doesn’t create a clammy, cold, damp spot under the ring. And when I’m driving around I have to hold the ring on with my thumb to make sure that it doesn’t slide off my finger.
But the worst part is now that I’ve forgotten it, I’m going to forget that I’ve forgotten it, realize I’m not wearing my ring, wonder where the hell it went or where I put it, remember that I just left it on the sink this morning, and then repeat this process again for a terrifying few moments an hour later.
(Wow, that last paragraph really makes it seem like I’m about 90 billion years old.)
There are some benefits to wearing a ring though. For one thing, I always have something to play with. The ring spins better than a coin, and makes a much nicer sound when I flip it. And it’s great to tap against things and get a triple-dope phatty-bo-batty beat going. Twice now my ring-beats have caused black people in my office to spontaneously start rapping and playing basketball, cause Italians to exclaim, “Thatsa spicy meataballa!” and cause the Irish to start drinking.
I’m just kidding. The Irish were already drinking.
Anyway, now I just want my ring back so that a) I know it’s not lost and b) I can drop the phat beats again.
Oh, and it’s a nice reminder of what I have at home: a wonderful wife to cook and clean-up after me.
