It Wasn't Funny at the Time

Last night I decided to re-organize my jewelry. I'm kind of a jewelry whore. I have more than I'll ever wear, but I can't not buy something that's totally awesome. Anyway, I started this project by dumping all of my jewelry boxes on the floor and sorting: necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings. I untangled and polished and cleaned.

After about 45 minutes I was on to the last wad of stuff to untangle. In the middle of this mass was my wedding ring. Well, my ex-wedding ring, anyway.

See, I was married before. I try to pretend it never really happened, but it did and I have the ring to prove it.

December 22, undisclosed year: I am in the middle of a painful waiting period - namely, the time between realizing I needed to leave my husband (in early November) and being able to do it (after the holidays were over). This sounds calculating and kind of ridiculous, but it seemed like the kindest thing to do. Anyway, my husband and I get into a fight over an alleged phone message from his mother and her gall stones. We were scheduled to go with my parents to my sister's for Christmas on the 24th.

December 23, undisclosed year: My husband is a no-show for a dinner party that I end up going to alone. He is, further, a no-show at home until almost midnight. When he comes in, the fight begins and goes on for a couple of hours until I finally tell him it's all over. I call my parents around 2A and announce my arrival at their house and that I "don't want to talk about it."

December 24, approximately 4A, undisclosed year: I wake from a troubled sleep with the thought, "I should take off my wedding ring!" So I do - take it off. Five minutes later, addle-brained and half asleep, I think, "I don't want to lose it, though." So I put it on my right hand. Now, to be clear, I don't know where it would have gone. I wasn't thinking clearly. Even if I couldn't find it, it would have been somewhere in the bedroom...

December 24, 7A, same year: I awaken to ready myself to go to the airport. My right ring finger is slightly swollen, but I ignore it and shower. By the time we are ready to leave for the airport, my finger is quite swollen so I grab a Ziploc baggie full of ice to put my hand in in the car.

December 24, 8A, the airport: The swelling in my finger is getting worse and worse. My finger is a deep purple color. My father says, "We have to get that thing off your finger or you're going to be in big trouble." The question of how to get the ring off, though, was still unanswered. Nothing will pass my knuckle and I'm losing the feeling and mobility in my finger.

My father goes to the gate agent and asks if there's a member of the ground crew who has a pair of wire snips or pliers who can come cut the ring off. We show the gate agent my finger and she gets on her radio.

Five minutes later, a large man in orange coveralls arrives to rescue me. He has an arsenal of cutting devices. He begins to try to cut the ring off. It hurts. A lot. He's not making much headway. He gets on his radio and calls for "Roy" to "get up here with the bolt cutters."

In another five-ish minutes, Roy arrives with a tool that looks like it can take the leg off a farm animal. Roy and other-workman-name-unknown have my hand and are cutting away. Roy cuts while OWNU pulls the metal apart, all the while taking care to not cut me. My eyes are watering and my finger is throbbing. Every eye in the gate is on us.

After about 10 minutes of careful cutting and prying, my finger is free. My saviors step back with a flourish and the crowd claps. They take their bows, my dad tips them and we have time to spare before we board the plane.

This was the end of my marriage. Apropos, no?

I can laugh about it now.


hannahjustbreathe said...

Wow. Talk about symbolic...

Dorothy said...

I know. I never heard of anyone having to have their ring cut off before, although I'm sure it has...

Dirty Kitten said...

I remember that!

What are you doing? Post more!

Dorothy said...

Just posted something. Suck it.