Long Way Down

This morning my ring fell off. It was 5:30 and we were lying on a blanket, trying to catch a glimpse of the Leonids. Standing up, I let my left hand fall and felt the gold band drop right off my finger, free as a bird. Not the first time this has happened, but the first time in the backyard on a moonless night, so I frantically worked my fingers through the grass while K. went to get a flashlight. Making out its shape in the wet, frosty dark, I slid it onto my index finger and walked back to the house, hands firmly in pockets.

I didn't used to have these problems.

I must have been over 200 pounds when K. and I picked out rings. Until then I'd never worn a ring, so it was well into our marriage before I'd stopped twisting and sliding it, trying to get comfortable with my badge of commitment. Eventually the flesh at the base of the finger seemed to atrophy around the band, but the ring had never been what I'd call a soft fit.

Now I have a different problem. If I'm going to be swinging my arms or moving around with my fingers unclenched, I have to remember to put the ring in my pocket or slide it onto another finger entirely. Early into my marathon training I decided to leave the ring at home, convinced that it would bounce off during a long run and be lost forever. Throughout the workday I'm forever fidgeting, sliding it from one finger to the next, ring to middle, middle to index, then onto the other hand. It's a wonder I haven't lost it already, though I have tried.

Saturday I went to the mall and asked a jeweler what it would cost to get the ring re-sized. She looked at the cut, looked at a chart and gave me the quote: $45. I don't know what I was expecting, but since they'd have to cut off some of the band I figured the extra bit of gold would cover the costs of its extraction, no? And then what if I gained back the weight? But re-sizing has come to feel like an inevitability.

That was before today. Barely six hours after losing my ring in the grass, I was washing my hands in the restroom and reaching for a paper towel when I felt the familiar slip of the ring passing over the knuckle and--fling--there it goes again, dropping neatly into the wall-mounted trash bin with an insolent clang. I made up my mind while the janitor was unlocking the bin--$45 is a small price to pay for some peace of mind. I'm not really complaining, of course. It's a good problem to have.