I’ve Had 6 Rings in 18 Years of Marriage

I’m not careless, okay?

I have Raynaud’s syndrome, so my fingers constrict. I also take rings off when I wash dishes or shower.

It’s just that I’ve innocently misplaced a few bands that symbolize my devotion to my spouse of over nearly two decades.

Don’t look at me like that, readers! These are not social security cards but rings, out in the open and slipped onto our unreliable digits to get banged up.

When I reveal my missing wedding jewelry to others, I get horrified faces, sympathetic laughter, and bobbing heads that judge me for driving a Volvo. (It’s a very used Volvo.)

I am not a money-hungry Jezebel. I love my husband with an affection that bores deep into my core.

For those already condemning me, go make your husband a sandwich or something. For the rest of you, let me explain.

This all started because I got hit in the face with a softball.

In my last semester of college, my fiancé and I went to one of those cheesy fun parks with go-karts and putt-putt. We tried the batting cages because nothing says romance like getting torpedoed by softballs.

On the last pitch, I got pummeled in the face. And like Nancy Kerrigan, I cried, “Why?!” because it was less than a month before our wedding, and my nose was throbbing.

I didn’t break it, but I strategically applied Neosporin to my abrasion any chance I could.

One day before heading to class, I went to the bathroom, removed my engagement ring, washed my hands, and applied my salve. I washed my hands again and headed down the hall. In the middle of my professor’s lecture, I realized something was missing. I jumped out of my seat and ran out of the room to the bathroom, but it was too late. My ring was long gone.

Fast forward about two months to when we were in our small apartment as newlyweds. Life was good, and I still had my delicate, simple diamond wedding band left from the set.

Until I didn’t.

After a day on a cleaning spree to show my new husband my domestic fortitude, I noticed my ring was missing. He helped me look for it until I came to a bleak, allergic conclusion: I must have accidentally sucked it up into the vacuum after it fell off.

We rip the bag open. My eyes water, and I sneeze.

It’s not there, and I have to vacuum again.

A series of unfortunate events

This is where it gets fuzzy.

We bought a replacement band that was gorgeous. Small encrusted diamonds that appeared to be entwined in three rings.

This one didn’t go missing, but it needed numerous repairs due to a prong issue and missing stones.

Then I bought a fake cubic zirconia one, but that also disappeared. There was also the Celtic knot ring that warped on my finger.

A few months later, I ordered a ring from Etsy, a transparent resin band with mystical gold flecks. Something that would make Gollum jealous. Also missing. I think it was left in the shower; maybe it disintegrated.

I moved on and fell for another Etsy-acquired ring. This one was a shiny, beveled white ceramic band. Very modern. Very girl boss.

Until that one entered my ring dish and was possibly stolen by a burglar who only swiped rings mass produced in Eastern Europe. (That was the story my son concocted.)

So yes, six rings. If you include my engagement ring, that makes seven.

That made my stomach hurt a little bit.

A history marked without a ring

What do I wear now? Well, nothing, of course. Would you trust me?

I’ve toyed with the idea of tattooing a ring on but decided against it.

I have too many rings hearted on Etsy, and I occasionally browse when I’m at our local high-end antique mall.

Currently, both my husband and I don’t wear rings. The past few years, especially as we transitioned out of ministry, were rough. I wanted to leave many, many times, but I’m still here. We’re still here.

We met November 1, 1999 when I started my first day of work at his place of employment, a shoe store at a struggling outlet mall off Interstate 95 in south Georgia. His manager prompted him about the new hire, and after seeing me, the normally shy guy looked over at his co-worker and said, “I’m going to date that girl.”

I was 16, and he was 18.

In a nutshell:
We dated.
We broke up.
I went away for college.
We stayed in touch.
In 2002, he asked me out to Valentine’s Day dinner “just as friends.”

At this romantic dinner, I asked if he wanted us to get back together, and he said, “More than anything.”

I made him wait a week because I had to “think about it.”

And we’ve been together ever since.

But like most people, we changed and grew. We faced times of newly found indifference while other facets of life brought out strong principles that previously did not matter. Our three kids strained and delighted us. Ministry broke us, but in picking up those pieces, we finally addressed a lot that was left unresolved, issues that were previously swept away in the responsibilities and throes of ministry leadership.

We’re still changing and growing, but now in greater appreciation of who we are as individuals, a privilege to rediscover each other on deep, vulnerable levels. Our foundation may not be solid, but to be honest, I think some of the unraveling and cracks have made us better.

But even during our times of passion and healing, I’ve never felt the need to purchase another ring. Sure, let’s window-shop, but our kids need braces.

With that, May 8, 2024 will mark our twentieth wedding anniversary. I would love to go to Hawaii, get glammed up with the kids, and renew our vows. That’s the plan.

And then, and only then, do I want to consider new rings.

Definitely nothing traditional. Sapphire? Emerald? Art déco inspired? Why not all three?

No, I don’t mean all of those fancy details bundled up in just one ring. I’m talking about three separate rings so I have back-ups.

Just kidding. Kind of.

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Desiree McCullough is actually obsessed with earrings. She has too many to count, and her daughter swipes them–except the diamond earrings she got as an anniversary gift many years ago. Never lost those. Find out more about her at desireemccullough.com or on Twitter.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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