I found my engagement ring yesterday.
It wasn’t ever lost, it has sat demurely in my jewelry box for… I don’t know. Years.
Officially, I stopped wearing it because one of the prongs had gotten bent and I didn’t want to lose the diamond. Unofficially, I stopped wearing it because I always had to take it off at work – solitary set diamonds do a terrible number on nitrile gloves.
But as I looked at it yesterday, I realized I was never really attached to it. It was a placeholder. And, hey, it’s shiny. And it has a story of an incredibly endearing, highly typical Mike-ism – he bought it without inquiring as to the size of the ring, without even considering ring size might be an issue until he was sliding it on my left hand… and it fit perfectly.
Looking at it, I feel vaguely bad over how much that ring cost him. I could never make up my mind what type of engagement ring I liked best. Looking back, I think it wasn’t important to me. Not like our wedding bands, which I knew were ours the moment I saw them on the webpage.
(For a hoot, I went and looked those bands up again. Wow, they’ve almost doubled in price. Apparently the vender’s gotten trendy.)
It was an odd thing, finding our wedding bands. I recognized them on that webpage like we’d been married fifty years. There were other rings I liked, some that I liked better, but none other that I recognized. I’ve never experienced anything like it.