Requiem for a Ring

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend edition, July 22, 2011

For two days I wore what had to be the world’s ugliest engagement ring. Then, we cut it off. The ring, that is, not the engagement. I had been wearing that engagement ring for more than 25 years. In all those years it remained intact and beautiful, but this week I had to resign myself to fate and weight.

Fate: on Monday, the diamond fell out. Why? The prongs, the trusted backup singers and bodyguards of the precious gem, went on strike. Perhaps they became weak or disgruntled. Most likely, they grew jealous of the attention bestowed upon the glamorous girl in the center, the one that lived for the limelight, snatching up all the light and firing it back, winking and twinkling for all the world to see her wit and warmth, while the prongs were relegated to the subterranean world, doomed to a pedestrian life of functionality, their dim world filled with dullness and drudgery. Twenty-five years of this, and the upstart prongs had had enough. Sure, Miss Diamond could have been useful like her industrial cousins, the ones employed to cut glass and other lesser materials. But no, for 25 years she sat on her behind, pretending to be delicate, with never a word of thanks to the prongs who showcased her to the world. On Monday, the prongs simply refused to do their duty and effectively evicted Miss Diamond.  Fortunately, we (being my sixteen-year-old son) found the diamond. Thanks, Sergio.


Weight: when you augment your frame, which has not increased in height, with thirty pounds, some of that weight will choose to distribute itself on your finger. Fat is very democratic in that way. While it may have its favored spots where it tends to do the most campaigning, it does eventually reach the whole populace.


I noticed my ring when my hand brushed and scraped my face. I looked in horror at the prongs, pointing upward with beckoning arms. What did they want from me? Praise? There, where the diamond once sat, was a dark pit, a crater - an ugly pock.


The ring would have to come off. Not only was it now hideous, it had also become a hazard, scraping and snagging angrily at things. Whether the prongs were looking for revenge or attention, I could not be sure, but they were going about it the wrong way. (I’m so tempted to say, “the prong way,” but then I’m afraid that one of my children will read this and will groan at my stupid pun.)


I struggled to remove the ring, first with soap, then with oil, and finally with some specialty spray offered to me at our local jewelry store. I think I expended their whole bottle, desperately spraying at my finger and all around the ring, hoping that the wedged ring would miraculously slip off. Sure, I could get it to do a few pirouettes around the ring finger, and if I didn’t concentrate too much on it, or try too hard, I could get the ring to rise about a centimeter in the course of these revolutions. But then it always met with insurmountable odds: the Knuckle of Death. The knuckle was wide and engorged in angry colors. At this point, the ring and I always declared defeat.


Later that night, my husband convinced me that cutting was the only option. From there, it took just a few minutes. It’s a good thing this man has invested thousands of dollars in tools. That way, when he is ready to do a delicate task like snip off his wife’s rings, all he has to do is to ask to borrow the six-year-old’s tools. Could he go bring the diagonal cutters from his little birthday toolbox to his father?

The youngest was off in a flash, because by definition, young children must run in the house, no matter how mundane or urgent their business. Never mind the lessons they have learned when skating through the kitchen on an unwanted apple core or the time they whacked their heads on furniture or a sibling. The only time they will not run is when they feel the urge to throw up, in which case they will turn to you for moral support and a landing spot for their vomitus.

Snip and spread, and both rings went off. It will cost over $ 200 to repair the engagement ring, which is half of what it originally cost. My husband says forget the whole thing, and he will just get me another one. After all, isn’t our 25th anniversary coming up in a few months?


Hmm. Should I be greedy or sentimental? Either way, don’t tell the prongs what we decide. I’m a little afraid of those girls.