Ring in the New Year

It’s 2013 and I’ve rung in the New Year with a ring! (Chuckle, chuckle. Laugh at my pun).

I’m thrilled beyond belief in a way that is completely indescribable. Everything you hear about the way you feel doesn’t come close to what it actually is.

BUT, that’s not what this is about.

One of my New Year’s resolutions was to blog “early and often,” said every soccer coach since the beginning of time. It really is, though. Therefore, I’ve decided to start out on a good note and create a themed series of sorts; and it’s called: Crazy things I’ve done since getting engaged.

Act 1

I wear my ring about 15% of the time. Not kidding. Here’s why, though (and it’s totally reasonable)—I am PETRIFIED of it. Nothing has ever enamored me so much and absolutely terrified me to my core at the same time. Let me give you an example…

I am taking the elevator down from my office building with coworkers, just after I revealed the engagement news earlier that day, when suddenly my boss yells:

“WHERE IS YOUR RING?!” as she’s looking down at my hand.

“It’s in…my bag” I very sheepishly reply. Hi EVERYONE. Also, I’m having heart failure from what was just said.

“Oh my God. DON’T lose it,” she says, “You gave me a fright, there. I would just feel a lot better if it was on your finger.”

…First of all—Hellooo elevator people. My name is Worst Fiancé of All Time, and I was actually trying to rid myself of this gorgeous symbol of my life’s happiness on my way out today. Just, like, not in the mood, ya know? I’m really tired.

“I don’t want to get it sweaty” I basically whispered, “I’m going to work out.”

And it’s true. I honestly can’t imagine that thing seeing a fingerprint let alone sweat. I was doing the normal thing, right?

“Ok, if you’re sure…night!” she calls back to me in her effing adorable authentic Irish accent.

Son of a.

Insert tailspin. Open floodgates of insane and paranoid thoughts about losing me ring within a time frame that is acceptable to be measured in hours, not even days yet. Cut to me, walking along the dark, faceless, commuter and somehow (still) tourist riddled street of Michigan Ave like a completely unhinged person, staring at my handbag, which I have decided to hold out in front of me like a drink tray (because, that’s what people do in busy crosswalks when they’re trying to be extra cautious?)

Suddenly I’m crossing the bridge at the river and the alarms in my head are blaring.

“What if: there’s a hole in the tiny pocket of the bag where the ring is—and, it falls to the main compartment. And then it rolls to the corner—where my heels are. And as I walk, a hurried stranger, probably a tourist on the way to Garrett’s popcorn, bumps my shoulder on a crowded bridge, forcing my heel to puncture the seam of my bag. The ring falls… at just the right angle to soar through the crack in the footpath and plummet to it’s demise at the bottom of Lake Michigan, never to be seen again, like the Heart of the Ocean in Titanic, and OH my gosh that’s about to happen.”

That was an actual thought. From me—the girl who once jumped from her stairs because she figured she would either fly or not fly, whatever (I didn’t by the way). In that moment, though, I ran off the bridge onto pavement, open my bag, put my ring on, and exhale (read: gasp). Clearly the scenario had been escalated by the fact that I had been unknowingly cutting off oxygen to my brain, but still—what was that?! When had I become capable of thinking that way?

And just as the next crazy thought starting to creep in,

“If I’m like this about my ring…can you imagine me with my ki—“ and the old me, normal me, sane me, stopped the madness.

“Neh,” I thought, “kids can’t fit through those cracks.”

And then I laughed. At myself, by myself, in the street—like the crazy person I’d become.