The Ring and I

I love to travel, but recently, at the airport and on the plane I kept noticing everyone's wedding rings, which kinda made me sad. I have several rings from past relationships, and I remember the pride of wearing one; that little symbol that says; 'Someone values and adores me—or better yet—puts up with me.'

Just as I was getting to the edge of weepy, I pulled myself together, thinking, 'No, rings are just a stupid symbol!,' but that didn't make me feel better for long, so I started to ponder what I could do about the rang thang. My ideas were as varied as my moods, from sincere to wickedly playful, and back again.

I could pull out one of my old rings and wear it. They are all beautiful, and rich with the meaning and memories of someone special who gave them to me. But those bonds are broken now.

My inner Scarlett O'Hara whispered in my ear; instead of wearing those old rings Honey, you're gonna melt them down, have a tiara made from them and wear it to parties, kinda like your own set of antlers or hunting trophy.

I could melt them down into a little stautette, with a jeweled collar and leash. Kinda like an Oscar but  it will be a 'Mister' for best supporting husband in a dramatic role. Then I can give a speech and thank the academy of exs for all brutal lessons about life and love they have given me. OK, a bit bitter...

My brain was spinning. I could sell the lot on ebay, then buy my own, more gorgeous than the rest, and wear it proudly until someone suitable replaces it.' And if anyone says, 'Nice ring! You're so lucky to be loved.' the answer will be, "Yes, I am!" meaning that I still want to hear wedding bells, but until then I will share my abundance of love with friends and family, and first and foremost, with myself.

Meanwhile, I bought myself a string of fresh-water pearls, each born of agitation, imperfect but glowing, a lovely reminder of the beauty of life and love.