It’s the (Really) Little Things That Matter

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I spend a non-trivial amount of time worrying about losing my ring. I have a whole whack of them (I’m a die-hard magpie), but there’s one I wear every day, the one that was given to mark a milestone, the one I wear on my left hand and whose twin lives on someone else’s left hand. Once in a while, I take it off and put it somewhere it shouldn’t be, and then there are moments of panic when it isn’t in its usual spot. It has its own designated zippered pocket when I travel, and its own special drawer beside my bed. I’m fickle about the rest of my jewelry, but I have anxiety about losing this particular ring.

I have a theory about rings, be they friendship, promise, engagement, wedding or anniversary, and the anxiety they cause us (I can’t be the only one who worries about losing mine). We could say that humans chose the ring as a symbol of love and commitment because it is an unending circle, an infinite loop to represent that which must not be torn asunder. We can talk about wearing rings on specific fingers, the fingers whose veins have the most direct route to our heart. There’s something to be said for them being forged of elements as precious as our bonds with others, or that they’re adorned with jewels that have been around for thousands of years. It could be the people who give them to us, or the words that are spoken over them. There’s a whole lot of  metaphor tied up in these little bands of metal, but I don’t think that’s what makes them mean what they’re meant to mean.

I think we put so much stock in rings because they’re little- really, really little, and really little things get lost really easily. Think about it. How many other things that are the size of a nickel get so much attention from us? Why on Earth would we pin our romantic hopes and dreams on something small enough to fall down an air vent, get eaten by the dog, or slide unceremoniously off our fingers and down the drain as we do dishes? I think it’s because of their tiny size, because of the likelihood that they can be misplaced, that rings are so important to us.

When someone gives us a ring, whether it’s 24 karat gold or a twisted up gum wrapper covered in glitter glue, they’re asking if we’re capable of and willing to take care of something that will slip away if not properly tended to. They want to know that we’ll periodically, if not regularly, twist it on our finger to make sure that it’s still there, that we’ll be a little nervous when our hands get sweaty or slippery. They want assurance that we’ll freak out a little when we can’t find it. They want us to recognize that something small, something whose value (let’s be honest here) is almost entirely symbolic, can still be a priority. A ring isn’t just pretty and sparkly, it reminds us of how fleeting and fragile important things (like love) can be.

So my anxiety over this wee sparkle slipping into oblivion without my notice (come on, you have it too) isn’t just me being weird and obsessive. It’s me being devoted and loyal, attentive, and caring. I’m head over heels for the person who wears its twin. We designed these together, we wear them together, and we rest in the notion that we, like our rings, will be on each other’s minds at least a little bit at all times. That’s how it’s done, and it’s good.

Here’s to the little things, and to the lovely people who trust us with them. May we take good care of them.