Three days after my wedding, I lost my wedding ring. Some may this say was a bad marital omen, while others may say this was a forewarning of nuptial doom – either way, it wasn’t looking good for us. Thankfully it all worked out fine, our marriage has lasted, only she wears a wedding ring and I don’t, so when we’re out in public, strangers probably think she’s a married woman who’s hired a sexy hot-bodded, pert-buttocked gigalo. But let people think what they think. Doesn’t bother me.
The wedding ring fell off my finger when I was digging a hole in my garden to plant a camellia bush that we got as a wedding present – which some may say is an example of cosmic irony, while others may say is a cosmically ironical occurrence, it all depends on which school of irony you subscribe to. But it was a hot day, my hands were sweaty, the wedding ring slipped off and disappeared down the hole (I may have dug too deep, I think I heard a splash when it hit the water table). The ring was gone. I couldn’t find it. And I felt terrible because a wedding ring is supposed to symbolise the eternal circle of everlasting love. But then I remembered it was just a cheap $25 sterling-silver ring from Chapel Street Bazaar and I felt a bit better.
Wedding rings are not supposed to slip off easily, but this one did because I’d specifically bought a wedding ring that was way too big for my finger – which some may say was a totally imbecilic decision while others may say was an utterly moronic choice, but I say it was probably a bit of both. As a writer, I find rings very cumbersome to wear while I’m typing (which may be why Elizabeth Taylor wrote such a short memoir, it would have been a finger-lifting nightmare).