Last night at Tommy Bahamas, surrounded by fake safari relics and unknown drunk people from Daniel's high school days, I was asked about my ring.
"Let me see it," said the beautiful blond with tendrils tumbling from atop her head, lips shining, and eyes slightly crossed. I reluctantly pulled my hand from the warmth of my pea coat pocket and held my hand in the air.
"Oh, what is it?" she asks, as she bends my fingers slightly. While awaiting my response, she tosses back more white wine and I notice her waxy lip prints circling the rim.
"Umm, it's this beautiful set of rings that we found together one night in Long Beach."
"Oh," she says not quite satisfied with the lack of detail.
"Let me see your ring. It's gorgeous." I marvel, I touch, my eyes widen....I fawn. I think there are questions about carats, cuts, and metal that I should ask but I can only add, "It's very shiny."
"And look at these babies." I again dig deep and muster up my amazement for the stones glistening on her ears. "He really did good this Christmas."
"Oh, yes, very good." I reply as I notice the ginormous rocks that seem to be stretching her ear lobes.
Now, let me just say, I love my rings. They are this beautiful, external, societally-recognized symbol of Daniel's intentions, of our future, and of my style. But here is what they are not for me: a crucial talking point to strangers in a room, an invitation for strangers to ever fondle my fingers, bend my fingers, or pry into their stone/metallic composition.
I could lose these rings today. I would be sad but we would find some other rings. I would still look down the same path and envision myself growing old, wrinkly, dependent, forgetful and toothless with this incredible man.
