Free Head in the Sand ... and other unpopular positions by Linda M Au

married, it was time to start regretting the
pennypinching decision to purchase our matching simple wedding
bands at Walmart. Either that or God was punishing me for that
getaway weekend with three women I’d gone through puberty with
thirty-five years earlier. Nah, that couldn’t be it.
    Upon returning home, I took the ring to a jeweler,
who soldered it for fifteen bucks—a figure I balked at only because
it was fifty percent of the original cost of the ring. But, once I
got the ring back, a week after our tenth anniversary, I was happy
to be able to wear it and bend my fingers without puncture wounds
or severe chafing and weeping and gnashing of teeth . . .
    . . . until it happened again a month later. Either
the jeweler used substandard solder (honestly, though, how
substandard would it have to be to be worse than the Walmart ring
itself?), or I had some pretty strong joints on my left hand. Or,
God really was punishing me for something. I tried not to think
about that pack of Twinkies I’d had last night . . . or the
forty-two pairs of shoes in my closet. After all, what good would
finger-pointing do now?
    I had a decision to make: One option was to take the
ring to a different jeweler to have it soldered again without
having to explain why I was back. But if this kept happening, I’d
quickly run out of jewelers. Plus, who knew if these people talked
amongst themselves about their customers—at some sort of solderers
convention or something? I couldn’t take the chance.
    The only other option was to buy myself another
ring—one I could use as an “everyday” ring, saving the original for
special occasions—but none of the Walmarts in the area had that
ring in my size anymore. And besides, I had visions of this
happening to a new ring all over again in a few years. No, Walmart
was out, and so were K-Mart and Aldi’s and Dollar General. I was
going to have to spend some serious cash this time. My thirty-year
class reunion was coming up in a week, so for that one night I
purchased a cheapie metal-looking ring set (which came with a
gargantuan “engagement ring”) for nine bucks. Coupled with the fake
plastic wedding band, I wore my real diamond (which was more
sturdily built and was not purchased at a Walmart or a
thrift store or through the Pennysaver), and no one at the reunion
was the wiser.
    After the reunion, I purchased a sturdy wedding
band—one that will stand the test of time, which is far more lovely
a symbol for our love and marriage than the idea of a ring that
splits up every time you get too close.
    This new ring cost me twice what the original ring
cost, and I admit I got it on Amazon.com—but it’s doing the job
nicely so far. Not a nick or scratch on it, and certainly no gaping
holes. There’s a good reason for this durability, though: The thing
weighs a ton and is made of tungsten carbide, which, according to
the Amazon seller, is four times stronger than titanium.
     
    I’ve learned some valuable lessons in this
situation:
     
    • The ring’s heavy, sturdy weight on my finger means
I’ll never forget it’s there and accidentally catch it on whatever
broke the first one (like, a stiff wind or something). However, my
ring finger now has six-pack abs from the added weight it’s
carrying around.
    • If Wayne and I have a serious, horrible, nasty,
vindictive fight, and I’m losing, I can threaten to bonk him on the
head with the ring. That’ll get his attention.
    • New Valentine’s Day slogan: “Nothing says love like
tungsten carbide!”
    • And last, what God—and the local jeweler—have
joined together, let no man put asunder . . .
     

Random Things I Notice
     
    Part of my job as a writer
is to notice stuff. Stuff you just don’t have the time or
inclination to notice yourself. I care about you so much, dear
reader, that I carry around a little black notebook so I can jot
things down as I see them—so I won’t forget them later. (And, at my
age, forgetting them later