Yesterday I sort of lost my wedding ring. Or, I had it stolen. Fine lines all over this mess, kicking my ass.
I rarely wear my rings to the gym. But since I was only doing cardio yesterday, I wore it. My cardio got interrupted because a certain little girl had a dirty diaper. Which also rarely happens. I changed the diaper, noticed the adjoining bathroom in the nursery was occupied, so I used some Purell to clean my hands. Another rarity because I loathe Purell and think its stupid. I set my ring on the changing table to apply the Purell. Also rare, because I am so paranoid about my jewelry that I usually stick it into a pocket, rather than putting them down.
Then, I walked away.
Yes, it is my fault that I set my ring down and forgot to put it back on. It still does not prevent me from being infinitely frustrated, disappointed and sick to my stomach that no one bothered to return it.
Yes, it is just a ring and my family is safe and healthy and blah blah blah blah.
Whatever. It was my wedding ring. The one blessed by a priest during a religious ceremony that meant something to the sentimentalist in me.