A valuable cab ride

I never, but never, wear rings. When H and I decided to get married, there was no engagement ring, no jewelry exchanged at all (and let me just say now, with my aversion to everyday bling, I wouldn't have had it any other way.) So when he shoved that platinum band onto my left ring finger over a year and a half ago, that band that's supposed to represent our lifelong commitment to making sure all those versions of us remain supple and durable enough to thrive through years of real living, I remember being incredibly aware of the ring for weeks after. It was always there. It was uncomfortable. It felt itchy. I would sometimes take it off at work, set it carefully to the side for awhile, and sigh with relief. I'm used to it now, but old habits die hard - H and I both have apparently taken to fidgeting with our rings in moments when our hands are unoccupied but our fingers are anxious for play. I myself have been known to twirl mine around my ring finger, even to take it off, slide it on my other fingers, and every once in awhile (yes, I realize I have the habits of a ten year old), give it a good spin on a hard surface.

We went out for a date night for the history books this weekend - there was fancy dining with wine (at Bistro St. Tropez yet again), and there was a cozy, white-table clothed jazz club after, with a few rounds of cocktails. When we left, I was a little bit more than a little bit tipsy. In the cab on the way home, I remember distinctly playing with my ring and losing grip on it. I found it with a sigh of relief in my lap. I shook my head and scolded myself. Put your ring on, dummy, and stop playing with it! Not even a minute later, though, it was back off my finger and somewhere - somewhere, somewhere lost in the car. We looked. We stuck our hands down into the seat cushions. We felt under the front seats, under the floor padding. My hands have been in cab crevices that you probably wouldn't even want to imagine. The cab driver, most fortunately, was really very nice - he pulled over, got out a flashlight and helped us look. We managed to lift up the ENTIRE seat at one point (who knew that you could do that in any car?), and low and behold, there it was, gleaming in the glare of his flashlight. We laughed, thanked him profusely, gave him double what we owed him, and walked the rest of the way home. And today, I'm back to playing. I sometimes wonder if I'm just a storm drain, or a gutter, or a picturesque mountain overlook away from having to buy a new wedding ring. At least, for now, I know where it might be next time it flies out of my hand in a cab.