By Jasmine Michaelson

My husband of not yet a year lost his wedding band the other day.

I didn't think it was a big deal because it wasn't a terribly expensive ring and he outgrew it within a week of us being married (it can't be resized because it's titanium, which they can't cut). Jake's been very faithful about wearing it on his left pinky finger because he thinks that if people see a ring on his left pinky they will automatically think, "Oh, ring on the finger next to the wedding-ring finger. Must have grown out of his band." When in actuality all they think is, "That guy's wearing a ring on his left pinky finger."

At any rate, he lost it. I thought this would just provide me with an excellent opportunity to purchase him a new ring, this time one that fits and puts off the necessary red flag.

As he scoured the apartment with a furor verging on madness, I told him this.

"But, Jaz," he said, "this ring is special! It's the one you gave me on our wedding day!"

Long pause because I have just realized that my husband is sentimental.

This is weird for obvious reasons: A. He's a man, and B. He's a man. But I couldn't help recall last summer when the two of us went to help move his grandma and grandpa into his uncle's house. They had to get rid of a lot of stuff, so all the stuff they felt they could part with was spread across a really long table and children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren rummaged through it, picked what they wanted and discarded what they didn't. In all honesty, there wasn't much there. Tissue box covers with seashells glued on them, old dish towels, blank thank-you cards and outdated kitchen doodahs. But Grandma and Grandpa looked as though they were bleeding to death as the knick-knacks were picked over. I overheard Grandma say something to the effect of, "Well, there goes my life."

Jake and I were completely baffled by their behavior. Obviously campy tissue box covers don't define your life. Your life defines your life. Our early 20-something minds understood it perfectly. They've simply allowed themselves to become too attached to things. We won't do that will we, Jake? No, Jaz, we won't do that.

As I watched Jake turn the apartment inside-out looking for his ring, I realized, to my awe, it's already starting. Yes, I know a wedding ring is a little more valuable than dish towels. But really, it's still just a thing. Just one more thing you can't take with you when you die. We're still married, wedding band or no. The only reason it's so important is because of the memories it holds. Memories that in 50 years nobody will remember but us.

Jake found it under the bed eventually. Must've fallen off while he was sleeping.

As I thought about it, I realized the things I already know I'll have a hard time parting with -- things that won't be worth jack in reality, but will be the physical incarnations of our memories together. The $20 brown vinyl couch that isn't very comfortable, but that was our first "major" purchase together. The too-small, too-hard bed our parents donated to us. Our plastic orange cereal bowls. Our silver tea kettle. And yeah, maybe even our dish towels.

NW
SN