I never take my engagement ring off. I wear it in the shower, to bed, at the swimming pool–everywhere. This past weekend I finally found a place I couldn’t wear it–in the boxing ring. I took a 3-day boxing bootcamp where I had to wrap my hands, don big boxing gloves and hit the crap out of pads and bags (it was very cathartic).
Friday night, I slipped off my ring and put it in its box, nestled next to my future wedding band. All weekend, I kept getting this nagging feeling that something was wrong. What had I forgotten? Each time I realized it was my ring. I couldn’t believe I was so used to wearing it already.
There were 10 other women in the class, and none of them had jewelry on either. It was strange because I had no idea what their relationship status was. It obviously doesn’t matter, but I never knew how cognizant I was of whether people had rings on or not. I think subconsciously when I meet someone, the first thing I do is check their left ring finger to see if they’re single or not.
By the end of the bootcamp on Sunday afternoon, I had become used to being ring-free. So much so, that I forgot to put it back on before I went to a swimming pool with friends. When I got home that night, Fred and I went to dinner.
“Where’s your ring?” he asked me, curious.
“I forgot to put it back on,” I said.
“Oh, cool. As long as it’s not lost,” he joked. “I can’t afford another one.”
It felt freeing, in a strange way not to have it on. I didn’t feel any less engaged, but I felt rebellious in a way. Like I didn’t need a piece of jewelry to scream to the world that I was taken.
The next morning, I pulled the diamond out of the box and slipped it on my finger. It sparkled, and I remembered how much I like the feeling when it screams to me that I’m taken.