The Broken Ring

About two years ago my wedding ring broke. At first I thought something was stuck under my ring, but when I finally looked, I saw that it had split right in half, and the two sides sometimes caught my skin between them, pinching me. I showed my husband, who was concerned. He didn't want me to lose my ring, so I took both the engagement ring and wedding band off, because they were separate pieces that fit together, and wearing one looked incomplete to me. After wearing it for 6 years, it felt weird not wearing my wedding ring.

He said he'd fix it right away. So I put the ring in my jewelry box and waited.

And waited.

The longer I waited for him to fix it, the more angry and resentful I became. I began to think it wasn't important enough for him to take care of, and after a while, I thought he just didn't care.

That one thing, my one request that he put off for months, made me seethe inside. Every day it was there, in the back of my mind, nagging at me. Why couldn't he just fix it? How long am I going to have to wait for him to do something about it? The whole situation became a metaphor for our marriage. I wasn't important enough; what I wanted didn't matter; he didn't make time for me; I'm tired of waiting for him.

I waited 6 months before I finally decided to fix it myself. Almost defiantly (I was thinking, I'll show him!) I took the ring to a local jeweler who said they could repair it in a week's time. No trouble with the engraving? None. I was happy with that arrangement, but still angry with my husband.

When I returned a week later the ring was like new again. The white gold on the band gleamed. Every line of the engraving was perfect. The diamond sparkled. It made me remember how he said he'd searched for over a year for the perfect diamond, and perfect setting. I slid it into place in the familiar indentation of my finger. It still fit me perfectly.

For the longest time I was actually angry at having to do it for myself. And then I realized what a ninny I was. I am an intelligent, educated woman. I am perfectly capable of doing for myself. So why shouldn't I? But I kept telling myself his inaction meant that he didn't care, or that I wasn't important.

The broken ring really was a metaphor for our marriage. It seemed to be breaking down. I wanted him to change it, to fix it. But it wasn't all up to him. The ring wasn't pinching him. It was pinching me.

You know those conversations (or arguments) you have with yourself in the shower, in the twilight of sleep, in your daydreams while you're washing dishes, or folding laundry. Those conversations in my head shaped my moods, my actions. I lost myself in my own thoughts, and he had no idea what was wrong. He knew I was angry. He knew I was unhappy. He thought I was just cagey with my stay-at-home life.

I was losing myself. It was gradual, my realization, but that awakening saved me a lot of grief. I could see it leading us apart.I think it saved my marriage. I know it changed how I look at things, and certainly how I react.

So when little things pinch me now, I let him know. So we can talk about it together. And a lot of times, I take care of things myself.