The Ring

            In American homes today, it’s nearly impossible to predict the roles that husbands and wives are playing in each family dynamic. With so many adults either working multiple jobs, struggling to find work or staying home while their spouse works, traditional roles are out the window. In our family, Amy works two jobs, while I teach full-time and dabble in tutoring and free-lance writing on the side. So when it comes to things like cooking, cleaning and shopping, the work gets done by whoever is around to do it.

            Yesterday, Amy had an open house for her real estate job, and I was home with our daughters. The girls were playing with a neighborhood friend, so I took advantage of the time to do about eight loads of laundry, unload and reload the dishwasher, and clean whatever couldn’t fit in the dishwasher by hand.

            After Amy came home from work, it was time to put on some jeans and clean myself up a bit. It was, after all, our anniversary. The babysitter was coming by 7:30, so we hoped to get two or three hours to ourselves.

            As I washed my hands before leaving, I interlocked my fingers to lather them with soap and immediately felt something different. The nerve endings spread to the brain which brought out the panic and the words: “Where’s my ring?”

            I looked at my left ring finger. It was not there. The thin, gold-and-platinum wedding band, which I had worn every day of my life since September 16, 1995, was not on my finger. I checked with Amy, to see if she had played a trick on me, and she assured me she had not.

            So where was it? And why was this happening on our anniversary, of all days?

            My immediate instinct was that I had not been missing the ring for long. After all, I noticed it so quickly when washing my hands. But I am, after all, 41 years old now, and therefore I am starting to lose my mind ever so gradually. So Amy and I rewound our weekend. Could I have lost it while swimming at the gym on Friday? No, because Amy had a photo of me and the girls while apple-picking on Saturday, and, when she zoomed in on my left hand, you could see the ring.

What else had I done this weekend? Not much, actually, aside from cleaning house, washing the car, going to church and heading out for a run. Had it slipped off in the soapy water while cleaning the car? We checked the driveway, and found nothing. Was it in the sink where I’d been washing cups and glasses? Nope. Had it come off in the pockets of the new jeans Amy had bought for me? No, it hadn’t. Had I dropped it in the offering plate at church? No, we do electronic giving.

By this time, the babysitter had arrived, and we had to go. So Amy and I went out to eat, to celebrate 17 years of marriage, with only one of us wearing the wedding band that symbolizes this commitment. We had a great dinner and talked about other things, but every once in awhile I’d blurt out another possibility, asking, “Do you think it could have come off there?”

After we arrived home, we decided to choose sleep over more ring-searching. But when I woke up, I knew what was next: the garbage. I found an old pail, put a fresh bag around it, and proceeded to take everything out of the bag I had tossed in the trash can the night before. It took about 40 minutes, and it was awful – a rotisserie chicken, mac and cheese, week-old guacamole, mushy cereal, and dozens of soiled paper towels, napkins and wipes – all of which I unfolded and checked deliberately.

No ring.

By this time, the flies were swarming, and my hands stunk something awful. So after cleaning up the garage, I headed straight into the shower. Afterward, I walked into our bedroom to grab some clothes. As I pulled out a pair of underwear from my dresser, I heard a metal object fly across the room. It then began rolling along the hardwood before falling to the ground beneath Amy’s dresser. I got down on my knees, reached for the ring, and put it on my finger. At this point I thanked God.

I know this is the part of the story where you’re expecting me to put it all together, and tell you what it means that my wedding band was nestled comfortably atop of a pair of black and gray boxer briefs that I had shoved into a full dresser drawer after folding that eighth load of laundry on Sunday – just before going in to wash my hands.

But I’m sorry; I don’t know what to say. All I can tell you is that yes, 17 years is a long time. And yes, there are a lot of days in which it feels like our marriage is simply one of chores and errands and begging our children to do what we ask. A whirl of wedlock, where the last thing anyone’s thinking about is gold and platinum.

And yet, even without that piece of metal, I did go out with my wife last night. As we’ve done ever since we started dating, we hunted out a great pizzeria – one that served us locally grown mushrooms and onions along with mozzarella and parmesan cheese on our pie. It was so good. And we sat across from each other, eating and talking and looking into the eyes of our life’s partner.

That part, of course, was there all along. You can symbolize it in whatever way you want – through a ring, a pizza, a load of laundry or 40 minutes of garbage-sifting. It ain’t always pretty, it’s far too hectic and it will never be predictable. But I will take it, every day. I know, after all, who put that ring on my finger. And so long as her hand is in mine, we’ll be all right.