My three wedding rings

I bought my first wedding band in the summer of 2011. My then-fiancee and I went to a mall jewelry store and together picked out a titanium ring with tiny striations around the outside that looked like rainwater streaking down a windowpane. The inner loop of the ring was polished to a shiny smoothness, and the striations gave the outside a blunt, matted, look.

”You know that if you break the finger wearing this, they might have to cut your finger off?” the dealer said. “They can’t cut titanium with normal tools. So if your finger is pooling blood dangerously — or something, I forget exactly what it is — they’ll just cut the finger. I’m glad to sell it to you, but I tell everyone that who wants to buy titanium to Google it. I have a buddy who takes his off every time he gets on his motorcycle. Just saying.”

”Good to know,” I said.

”Could it tarnish?” my fiancee asked.

”Nope. Might get a nick if you bang it real good, but it won’t tarnish,” the dealer said.

”Good to know,” my fiancee said.

We were married that October in a Roman Catholic ceremony. In the wedding video, at the moment my wife slips the ring on my finger, I see her nod her head and push the ring down the finger one knuckle at a time, in rhythm with the incantation, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

Eight months later, in June, we spent a day at a water park. As we strode into the wave pool, my wife gaped in horror.

”You’re not wearing your ring in the pool, are you?” she said.

”It’ll be okay,” I said.

About ten minutes later, I surreptitiously took off the band and slipped it over my right ring finger. I dove under the surface, then popped up next to my wife, showing her my left hand. Before the shriek could escape her mouth, I showed her my right hand.

”Not. Funny,” she said.

”Sorry,” I said. “It’ll be fine.”

As we toweled off, I checked my ring out of paranoia that the chlorinated water might have discolored it. It hadn’t.

Shortly after, we took another trip, this one to the beach at Tybee Island, Georgia. We arrived at the beach before 9am, but it was already oppressively hot and difficult to walk on the sand with bare feet. Within half an hour of setting up our beach towel and chairs, I’d stripped off my shirt, applied sunscreen and set off for the water’s edge.

The water was murky and hardly cold, but mild enough to provide relief. For about ten minutes, I simply stood with the water up to my chest and enjoyed watching people skitter along the sand until they reached the water. My wife soon joined me and we floated and waded together while occasionally glancing at our belongings to reassure ourselves they were still there.

I saw my wife wading waist-deep about thirty feet away, so I decided to swim to her. I dove just below the surface and began to crawl through the water, feeling the surging ocean passing over and under me.

On my third stroke, as my left hand pulled under my body, I felt my ring start slipping off my finger. I stopped swimming and attempted to gather it into my left fist before it completely slipped away. I failed. I saw it flash once before it sank out of sight, evading my swiping hands.

We looked for it in the shallows for the next half hour. I shuffled through that section of water, feeling for it with my feet, but only finding rocks and shells. I found a man with a metal detector and asked him what my odds of finding it.

”Gold ring?” he asked.

”No. Titanium,” I said.

”Not good,” he said. “You say you were waist deep? Chest deep?”

”About that,” I said.

“It probably won’t even wash ashore. Most likely, it dropped straight down and immediately started getting covered with sand,” he said. “That’s what rings do. They cut through water and tend to burrow.”

We gave up looking and tried to enjoy our time on the beach, but triple-digit temperatures and the spectre of the lost ring made staying late into the afternoon unbearable. Shortly before 1pm, we packed up and retreated to our air-conditioned car.

As my wife buckled in, she turned to me.

”We need to get you a ring,” she said.

”You want to wait until we get home, or are you asking if we’re going to get one now?” I asked.

”I would prefer you get one as soon as possible,” she said.

”Okay, I saw a shopping center on the way here,” I said. “We’ll stop there on our way out of town. I think they have a WalMart.”

We walked into the WalMart and went straight to the jewelry counter. I asked to see their selection of men’s rings. Unfortunately, every one of them was either garish, or cheap-looking, or too expensive.

”Now what?” my wife asked. “I hate that you’re not wearing a ring.”

”Me, too,” I said. “I don’t know.”

We walked outside, and I saw a Rue21 on the other side of the shopping center. There, I went to their men’s jewelry carousel. Below the studded bracelets and behind a couple skull rings, I found a ring my size with brushed stainless steel around the outside and black enamel on the inside. The brushed effect blunted reflected light similarly to my first ring. People paying particularly close attention might notice the difference, but most wouldn’t. It cost five dollars.

I brought it to the register.

”Could it tarnish if he wears it in the shower?” my wife asked the girl behind the counter.

”No. It will be fine,” the girl said, no doubt wondering why I would wear a piece of costume jewelry from Rue21 in the shower.

”Can you remove the sticky tag?” my wife asked, as we completed the transaction.

”Sure,” the girl said. There was a bit of stickum still on it when she handed it back. My wife licked her fingers and rubbed it off. Then she turned to me.

”I’m going to put it on your finger,” she said. “It’s like we’re getting married again, in Rue21, in Georgia.”

She put it on my finger and kissed me. We walked out to the car, and headed for the next leg of our vacation, to Atlanta.

Somewhere along I-16, she asked me, ”Are you going to wear that ring forever?”

”I don’t know,” I said. We sat in silence for a minute. Then, I said, “How about this? The next time we go visit my family in San Francisco, we’ll drop this ring in the Pacific and replace it with one that we didn’t get because we felt we had to. It’ll be a ring that we both actively chose for me to wear.”

”That works,” my wife said.

(Image cc-licensed: "Tybee Island" by jenniferconley)