Fifteen years ago, I got married. It was easy, and fun. As I have written before, my decision was based entirely in the certainty that Mari was generous, he was amazing, and he would always choose to do the right thing. (Plus, superfox. Also, not a baby, not a whiner, not a mama's boy.)
While we were in Chicago, we met up with the priest who was the celebrant at our nuptial Mass. It was so great to see him; he was happy to see us thriving in our, yk, sacramental fulfillment. I mean, I know that sounds ridiculous, but I am totally serious; and really, God is so good.
Mari was not wearing his wedding band the whole time we were on vacation, which caused me a little bit of panic before we set out to meet Father Jay. "What will he say? He will think you are playing the field! Dear God!"
Being home during Holy Week totally brought my Catholic Girl to the fore in high lustre. I swear.
(This was the view from our random hotel-room assignment. How could I not believe?)
Anyhow, the reason Mari was not wearing his ring was because I concocted some story to get it off of him early in April so that I could size it. I wanted to buy him a new wedding band for this anniversary. If you know, you already know part of this story -- which part depends on who you are. Here is the entire narrative of the anniversary-gift fairy:
Before we got married, when we were still in buying mode, we let someone talk us into using a jeweler pal of theirs to custom-craft our rings. To make a long story short, the guy never got the rings quite right. The second time he presented them to us not-right, we had to take them anyway to have them for the ceremony. We brought them back to him the following week, after which time with him I picked them up and they were still not what we had asked for.
I brought them back to my office and called Mari at his office to break the news. He was also frustrated but, like me, resigned by this time to the dude's incompetence.
I was spinning the rings on my desk while I asked Mari what he wanted to do, trailing off deliberately, waiting for him to weigh in.
One must remember that Mari and I were virtually strangers when we got married. This is 90% of the reason Father Jay was leery of marrying us. We dated in consecutive, unremitting nights for 2 months before Mari swung by my house wielding a sparkly, 2-carat bauble in a small, velvet box. It was just after Christmas. We were ready to get married before February ended, but Father Jay was not. I was pleased last week to send him an email inviting him to visit with us and have a look at his fine and lasting work. That he almost refused the job went left unsaid. Because I am a classy gal.
The day in 1996, with the wedding bands, I waited, holding the phone, spinning -- plink, whirrr-rrr-rrr, plink, whirrr-rrr-rrr. Mari was quiet on his end of the line. I volunteered, gingerly, that we could keep going around and around with the jewelry crafter or we could ... just ... we could let it go.
"Yes," Mari told me, relieved and resolute. "Fuck it, I don't want to keep throwing good time after bad money. This is our real life."
This dude, he amazes me, all the time. I took the rings over to Wabash Avenue and sold them for scrap. ("Fuck it, let it go.") I think we went out to dinner with the money. Actually, I think it sounds bold & rascally to say we went out to dinner with the money. We probably just put the money back into the bank, but it's not like we never went out to dinner, so I take the poetic license.
I had a plain band to wear, one which coordinated with my engagement ring instead of matching Mari's wedding band, but Mari's finger was bare until a few weeks after this, when I saw a sterling silver ring in the jewelry case of a hipster, incense-burning, hummus-serving kind of a cafe in the Andersonville neighborhood of Chicago.
It was plain, but kind of a two-ring design. Circly! I liked it. I took it across to where we were sitting with friends, piled up under a trio of macrame plant hangers in the window, and it fit. He liked it, and has worn it ever since. I think it cost $18. Fifteen years later, it is battered & worn.
I always wanted to buy him a replacement, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I mean, it's not enough that I do not make any of my own money and the man has to pay for all of his gifts for himself, but he has to know about it ahead of time, too? Bleh.
A couple of months ago, I was sleeping through a transaction with a vendor who wanted to know if I wanted Their [Whomever] Card. I said whatever, and yes, and gave them the information they needed. I got the discount associated with acquiescing and then later, when I had quite forgotten about it, I got a bank card in the mail, not the store card I presumed and had already forgotten about. It had a real credit limit. I could buy the upgrade ring I had always wanted to gift and keep it a secret till the reveal.
A sequence of trippy, all-shoppers-on-deck events ensued. In it all, I knew that the real key was to get that ring sized, his ring. At the same time, I was drawn to a ring on The eBay, of all the places. I knew I could not buy a ring on The Permanent Market of eBay unless I was triple-positive about the size -- my husband is a sinewy ectomorph with large knuckles, and also especially because platinum can not be resized. I knew that I could not get the size right unless I had his ring, which has fit him all these many years. So, first I would get his ring off. Then, I would go out & get it sized. By a jeweler, on the thingo they use. Somehow. I did not have a plan past getting the ring off of his hand.
The day I got him to take it off, I was sitting around, checking in and clicking around with my favorite candidates for the buy, when I noticed that the eBay ring I kept flirting with most, that I felt most drawn to, that also was in his presumed (small) size, was right here, in this town. The eBay seller was an old, mainstay jewelry store in the bygone, shabby-yet-enduring part of the county.
I got up & announced to Mari the children & I had to go out right that minute, knowing that the minute we were gone, he would go to do something else & forget about the ring. (For weeks, obviously, though it was back on his desk a couple of hours later, with him none the wiser.)
When I made it to the jeweler, I swore the children to absolute secrecy, then got down to business with the institution. Underlings looked all around to find the exact location of the ring (whose eBay auction number I had stupidly not brought along). I chatted nervously about the provenance of the silver band, as above, while the jeweler's wife got her sizing thingo and finally slid Mari's ring along the length.
The ring I brought from Mari's hand was the same size as in the listing of the ring I wanted. The gal went back with her sizing wand to make sure she had not made a mistake Then she said to me as she came out with it aloft, in a slight state of marvel, "It is the same. Did you know these rings are the same design?"
I had not noticed, not that I realized prior to her announcement, but she was right. Not exactly, really, but in their simple, circly spirit, plus allowing for the vast difference in their metallurgical properties.
It was thrilling in its rightness -- 15 years later & I picked out the same ring, which is, yk, of course, because 15 years later I would still pick the same guy. Plus, now, 15 years later, the ring is better, the guy is better, and plus-plus, it fits! (The ring, I'm saying, but metaphorically, too.) Exciting!
This is our real life.
love is a place
E. E. Cummings
love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places
yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skillfully curled)
all worlds
Recent Comments