'Till Jeweler Shall We Part

I had to do something today that made me pretty darn sad.

I had to have my wedding and engagement rings cut off of my finger.

How did I get into this predicament?  Well, I managed to get the sucker off when I was about 7 months pregnant with Violet.  It was tough, but after some persistence, ice, olive oil, and dental floss, I did it.  After she was born, I crammed it back on there where it has stayed -- for approximately 3 1/2 years, stuck as stuck can be.

Here I am, pregnant again and still fat.  Sure, I'm only up about 4 pounds (not bad considering there's two in there and I'm almost 16 weeks), but, as I told the pleasant jeweler who helped me escape my matrimonial bond, I'm not going to get smaller for a while.  I don't think that this was the first time someone had wandered into the store to ask for help in this predicament, he was very gentle and helpful and the skinny sales lady wasn't judgmental --I was actually afraid that someone might give me a dirty look or two for allowing myself to get fat enough to grow around my wedding ring.

But as the ring separated and the jeweler gently pried it open enough to slip off my finger, I had a brief moment of "AAAaahhhh!  Don't take that!  My Scottie picked that for me!"

I joked with my patient hubby, "This doesn't mean I think I'm not married, I promise!"  But I feel naked.  I must touch that ring a thousand times a day, the cool metal serving as an unconscious touchstone.  Now I feel a band of a different sort -- a narrow band of compressed finger fat that marks the place where my ring was.  My finger IS naked.

Logically I understand that it isn't safe to have a ring on your finger that is too small.  Logically I understand why I made the decision to have it surgically removed.  But, honey, I am still very much married to you and always will be.  I promise this.

I do.