Heavy

I have the most beautifullest wedding ring in the whole wide world.  It’s white gold, and sparkly.  Little tiny sparkles halfway around.  It’s so awesome that I’ve only lost it once (bathroom, middle of the night, wastebasket, handwashing accident, don’t ask.)

But now that I’m discovering what actual married life is like, I’m wondering if Josh The Pilot and I should have held out for titanium wedding bands.  And look at these things.  They’re medieval weapons.  They could double as lug nuts on a monster truck, assuming lug nuts on a monster truck feature beveled edges and half a carat.  These are serious rings.  The dainty little thing on my left hand, I’m beginning to fear, doesn’t bespeak the enormous… enormity of marriage.

My grandmother’s wedding ring is currently sitting in my mother’s jewelery box.  It’s the one she wore for over sixty years, just about the only jewelry she had left after the other few pieces she owned vanished in a home invasion and through the slow erosion of nursing home existence.  Children and dishes and bakery work and scrubbing and holy water and children some more wore it down to a wire.  We tied a length of red yarn around the ring to anchor it to the Earth, fearful it will somehow evaporate entirely.  I was shocked when I became aware of the condition of it; my grandmother oversaw the cross-town construction of an entire house while enormously pregnant and without a driver’s license.  She was not a malleable wire of a woman.  She deserved a stalwart, solid, indestructible lug nut of a wedding band.

On second thought, given my propensity to put as much physical distance between myself and moths on the porch light… maybe the slender little wimp-o-rama band is better for me after all.

find a wheel at:  mbe@drinktothelasses.com