I try not to share too many intimate and embarrassing stories about my marriage in my writing. Although, if you’re a regular reader of mine, you’ll know this is a lie. I always share those stories, and they usually do well.
I suspect this is because people love to know they are not alone in the strange circumstances that always seem to arise in a union.
Jamie, the hubs, can’t get too angry about my affinity for oversharing because whenever I write something that’s a little TMI regarding our relationship, I try to follow it up with an article that highlights why he is a diamond in the rough. Him being the diamond, me being the rough — if that analogy wasn’t already clear.
From stories like 9 Ways My Husband Keeps The Spark Alive in our Marriage to Farting in Bed With Boys — there is always a tale that reveals a bit of the magic that my husband showers upon me daily.
I am, in no uncertain terms, a lucky lady. I know I’ve said that before, but honestly, I don’t think I can say it enough.
Take a few weeks ago, for example.
Jamie and I have been hitting the office hard lately. Of course, our respective offices aren’t offices at all, but instead a train yard and a kitchen table with a laptop propped upon it — but you get the drift. We’re working hard to pay down the debt we unhappily acquired when having to close down our sandwich shop in 2019.
That was a sad time, and it uprooted a lot of deep-seated issues in our relationship. We’ve been striving to move past this in our lives and work towards a brighter future.
The problem with working so hard is that the burnout will eventually spiral down upon you. So these past few months, we’ve found ourselves snappy with each other and unwilling or not wanting the other’s affection.
Between kids and work and all of the life-things that tend to come at you when you reach adulthood, we didn’t seem to have the energy to work on our relationship.
“We’re strong. So we can withstand a short period of neglect from one another,” we said, while not actually saying the words.
A few Fridays ago, I was surprised while doing the dishes when my husband’s arms wrapped around me, and he whispered in my ear that we needed to take the kids on an outing the following day.
“Let’s get away from everything. Go to the beach, take the kids out for dinner — be a family. There’s just one thing,” He said, pausing.
“What’s that?”
“You’re not allowed to bring your laptop.” I agreed without hesitation because that is a fair request when embarking on a day off from work.
Plus, I could work on my drafts from my phone.
Joke!
The beach was terrific, as was the drive around the countryside while listening to loud music and laughing at Jamie’s terrible Dad jokes with the kids.
I was most looking forward to dinner, though. It had been ages since we’d eaten out at a restaurant.
As we were dressing up to go out, I looked at my jewelry box and saw my wedding ring sitting there alone and lonely.
“I should wear my ring tonight since it’s such a fancy occasion,” I said while smiling sweetly at my husband.
We stopped wearing our rings about a year after our wedding for two reasons. 1) They are large and annoying and get caught on things when we’re cooking and gardening. 2) We both enjoy getting hit on by people who glance at our hands and find them ringless.
You gotta do what you gotta do, folks.
As I gingerly grasped my ring out of the box and tried to slide it on my finger, I gasped.
And then I let out a wail of pure agony.
“Oh my God, my finger is so fat it won’t even go on over the knuckle!” The devastation leaked out of my voice the same way my dog cries and whimpers at the garbage truck in our back alley every Tuesday morning.
Jamie looked at me blankly as if he didn’t know why I was so upset.
“JAMIE! Do you even know what this means?! I’ve gained so much weight that my wedding ring won’t fit on my finger anymore!”
Then my sweet as a button husband grabbed his ring from the bedside table where he keeps it and attempted, in the worst acting job ever performed for human eyes, to make it look like he couldn’t fit his ring on his finger either.
“See, mine won’t fit either. It’s probably just the heat, Lind-bae.” Again, if you’re a regular reader, you’ll know that my husband has come up with the worst pet name in the universe for me. My only defence on this front is to use the name liberally myself as if I’m attempting to “take it back” even though I never wanted the damn thing in the first place.
I looked at Jamie suspiciously but didn’t want to ruin the moment, so I kept quiet.
He then pulled me close, kissed me romantically (with a dip and everything), and the sound of his ring dropping to the ground clanged away in both our brains.
But we ignored it because what’s in a ring anyway?
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Previously Published on medium
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Photo credit: iStock
