My Wedding Ring

To fulfill my coronavirus stay-at-home guideline to “do something new” this week, I made a piece of art, this tiny colored pencil drawing.

This is my wedding ring. I wear it all the time. The first few weeks of our marriage, I would slip it off before getting in bed. One morning Glenn noticed. “Why aren’t you wearing your ring?” he asked. I stretched out my hand and looked at the shadow ring already on my finger, a bright halo left by the sun. Married was married, right? I wasn’t going anywhere. But Glenn looked shocked and anxious. I thought, Oh, so this is how it’s going to be: You want all of me–my whole heart, my whole mind—surrounded by you at all times? Even when I sleep?

Okay, I’m up for that. I wore my wedding ring to bed the next night and every night since. After loving men for many years who were content with having just some or most of me—while I wanted no more of them, I was ready for a love I could plunge into and immerse myself in like a swimming pool, a love that would refresh me and surround me, but hold me up when I needed sun. Our love has supported and refreshed me these nine years of our togetherness and (almost) six years of marriage.

This ring says who we are. I did not want a big diamond. When we were falling in love, Glenn said that though he was older, he didn’t have money. I told him that didn’t matter to me, and I meant it. A big diamond also seemed frivolous. I’m pretty active and sometimes clumsy. I was afraid I’d break it loose or nick it. I knew a big diamond is supposed to be “what every woman wants,” but this on its own made me nervous. Growing up I’d tried to follow mainstream rules, but even so, I ended up bullied at school. I gave up on the mainstream resoundingly at 14. At 42, if I find myself acting in ways that seem “mainstream,” I still get nervous. I feel like I could get hurt, like “normal” is a trap. Also I feel claustrophobic. If I’m living the life I’m “supposed to live” and wanting the things I’m “supposed to want,” how do I know it’s my life—instead of an empty script? Any choice can be made at any turn in life. In my own life, I feel safest when I make unconventional choices.

So, my wedding ring has tiny diamonds—diamonds that amongst the ring’s trees represent moons. The design speaks to my love of metaphor—my love of metaphor in poetry and through the act of representation in art. I love a diamond that is like a moon so much more than a diamond that is just a diamond, even if it’s a huge one.

Our rings are the same. We ordered a custom design from Ash Hilton, a New Zealand jeweler on Etsy. The scene reminds us of our early days. Glenn lived in Houston, and I lived in Wimberley, Texas. The first few months of our romance, we would meet at parks midway, setting up a tent to get to know each other under the stars. At Palmetto State Park outside Gonzales, Texas, I initiated our ritual of brushing our teeth side-by-side. We’ve brushed our teeth together nearly every night since, sometimes hugging as we do so. At Brazos Bend State Park outside Rosenberg, Texas, Glenn taught me the high-pitched squeal that awoke us was flying squirrels singing far above us in the oaks. Our memories are embedded in the scene on our rings, as deep and transparent as the diamonds.

My wedding ring may not have cost as much as others, but it is by far the most precious possession I own—far more precious than the dollars it is worth. Seven years ago when Glenn and I started discussing rings, I felt I didn’t need him to spend money on me to know he loves me. I still don’t. Sometimes he does surprise me with little gifts, and I love this. But I don’t love that he’s spent money on me. It is easy to spend money–so easy, spending money can seem meaningless. Maybe for women whose central love language is receiving gifts, gifts are crucial, as described in Gary Chapman’s The Five Languages of Love, but gifts don’t mean as much to me. What I want and what my husband gives me are attention, affection, and kindness. I knew then and I know now that Glenn loves me, and this is true regardless of whether he spends a dollar on me.