Missing for nearly a year, the wedding ring first worn 14 years ago has returned full circle around my finger. The catalyst for the winds of fortune to blow my way: an inflatable mattress and a curious five year old. I know that makes no sense, but logic rarely plays a hand in finding lost causes. Which is why you discover your wedding ring on top of a Disney Princess backpack.
I can smile about it now, but 10 months ago my facial expression resembled an Edvard Munch painting. Of course no one stole my ring from an Oslo museum, leaving me screaming mad. Instead, while making toast on a nondescript Wednesday morning, I looked down to find a blob of grape jelly on my left hand. What I didn't see was a ring between my middle and pinkie finger.
Not one to take off my wedding band, whether knuckle-deep in transmission fluid or soap suds, I was a bit perplexed. I checked the window sill above the kitchen sink, around the bathroom sinks and on top of the bedroom dresser. All logical spots to temporarily rest a ring. Unfortunately, all I found was loose change and sparkle fresh flavor toothpaste residue.
At this point there was slight distress, but far from full-blown utter panic, so I widened the search radius. I started inside the mudroom closet, methodically turning out coat pockets and winter gloves. Two hours later I was on my hands and knees, a pry bar away from ripping up floor boards. My clothes and recall memory were disheveled more than usual. The dog cowered in a corner; no doubt wary of a mitten-clad full body cavity search.
Exhausting the nooks and crannies indoors, I turned my attention outside. After playing back several scenarios in my mind, I fixated on the idea that my ring had come off while snow blowing the driveway. Yes, it had to be when I pulled off my gloves to restart the stalled motor. I would go out and retrace my steps — oblivious to the half-foot of new snow. After a half hour of stumbling around in the snow like Jack Nicholson in "The Shinning” I gave up — no ring on my frozen finger.
After searching every logical spot and an illogical jar of mustard, I reached the bad sitcom plot tipping point. I could tell my spouse that I had lost my ring, or I could make matters ten times worse and try to hide my transgression with a discount store stand-in erroneously inscribed with the words "1 Glove. 1 Life. Forever.” I opted for the non Tim Allen approach and told her. After all, real life doesn't come with a laugh track to cover up bad acting.
That evening we tore the house apart but to no avail, or wedding ring. The dog stayed in the corner — just in case.
Hope sprung eternal as the winter white stuff gave way to green grass and blacktop driveway. While the Easter Bunny slumbered, I was out in the front lawn with borrowed metal detector in hand getting overly excited about every beep and blip. For a second, I considered digging up the front yard until it resembled landscaping by Wile E. Coyote ACME lawn care. Instead I got down on hands and knees to bend back grass blades. To the neighbors it must have looked like Feng Shui or Miller Time gone wrong.
Even up until a few weeks ago, I found myself rummaging through the coat closet for the hundredth time with the same results. I was like the guy who locks his keys in his car. Lift the door handles. Circle the vehicle. Peer into every rolled up window. Circle the vehicle. It's hard to recognize your own stupidity, or just plain dumb luck, even when it's dangling from the ignition.
Just about the time I started looking at jewelry shop signs, an inflatable mattress saved my marriage. Well, actually, our union was never in doubt, but I did lose some sleep.
A neighbor had asked to borrow our blow up bed for a house guest, so I lugged it up from the basement where it resides 362 days out of the year. After a quick Inflation 101 demo, I rolled up the mattress and sent it out the door. A boring, run-of-the-mill moment that hardly seems worth mentioning except that it led to my wife standing in the doorway, utter joy on her face, with a band of precious gold in her left hand.
While I was close with the mustard jar, turns out the wedding ring had fallen into the folds of the mattress; probably during a deflation after Christmas house guests. After I unrolled it 10 months later, our daughter found the ring on the floor. Naturally she put it in the most logical place for a five year old girl — as a crown above Sleeping Beauty's head on her school back pack. My wife and I hugged Ella so tight, we nearly straightened out the curls in her pigtails.
Love and logic rarely go hand in hand. Which is why the ring back on my left hand feels so right.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com