I’ve recently experienced a teeny, tiny crisis here at the Asylum.
Perhaps more of a calamity. A mishap, if you will.
No one was maimed or killed, so that’s always good, but I’ve misplaced, or if I’m being honest, actually lost — probably forever — my wedding ring.
Gone like my previously flattish abdomen and spunky disposition.
Gone, baby. Gone.
It began as most ill-fated projects do around here: I had a vision. I decided to wallpaper a “feature wall” in my living room (damn you, HGTV) and took-off my ring so the toxic paste wouldn’t eat away at anything other than my flesh.
And, that’s the last time I saw it.
Upon awakening, I realized, as vomit rose in my throat, my ring was gone. I don’t know if I swept it into the trash with the wallpaper remnants, if I ground it up in the garbage disposal, if the fairies took it, if the dog ate it or if it simply vaporized like the three Krispy Kreme doughnuts I ate for lunch. I searched high and I searched low, overturning everything in the house, including the kids, the appliances and the laundry pile (which was no small feat), to no avail (but what I spied under my refrigerator would curl your toenails).
When I finally confessed the loss to my husband, I attempted to blame him; stating desperately: “Maybe if you forgot to take the trash out on Saturday night like you usually do, I could’ve found my ring in there!”
And then he asked the one question I hate most (next to: “are you pregnant?”): “Where did you see it last?” This query, in my mind, is as rhetorical and inane as asking what’s for supper when he clearly sees the Spaghetti-o can on the counter. If I knew where I saw them last, then that would be the very first place I would look – don’t you think (gritting teeth)?
And, no one felt pity for me.
My daughter shook her head forlornly and pronounced:”You just lose everything, Maria. You need to be more careful! I found your ring mixed in with the cotton balls once. It was just a matter of time before it was gone for good.”
My husband, seeing the opportunity to distract me from a large purchase he was about to make, stated:”Well, if you lost your ring, then I’m buying new clubs.”
Way to share the pain.
My son suggested I pray to St. Anthony – patron saint of all things lost. I explained that I tried that, but since his father’s name is also Anthony and he already thinks he’s earned saint status for being married to me for centuries, it all just got too confusing.
I cried about the loss, but the ring is really just a hunk of gold and rock. It doesn’t represent my family or my life and everyone’s all right.
Well, I’m not really all right; I’ve lost my bloody mind in addition to the ring and still I search for both.
Yesterday, I actually looked in the Raisin Bran box and my glove compartment for that ring.
Perhaps if I search this diligently for my aforementioned misplaced mind, I may just find a small morsel of my discarded sanity.
Now, where did I see that last?