Ring of Fire

A strange thing happened today.

Whilst perusing the aisles of the supermarket with two poorly children in tow - because we were out of crackers, and popsicles and gingerale, due to their mother's rampant slackerism - I ran into someone from a previous life...my life B.C..  Before Children.

I ran into my former boss.   We didn't used to get along at all, and I mean at all, but over time, he softened and I matured and proved how good and reliable and smart and loyal I was, and we became friends.  The time I worked for him was difficult for a lot of reasons - it was during that season of my life where you learn a lot of lessons about loss and disappointment and disillusionment and grief and shock and a whole bunch of really crappy stuff.  Some of it did help forge a bond between us, because honestly, when you go through a significant volume of ...stuff... with someone, you can't help it.  It's just the nature of things.  He saw me through my father's death, my marriage (start to finish), three pregnancies, two births, and a scorching case of postpartum depression.  I saw him through empty nestism, the loss of a parent, a friend, and a host of medical issues and illnesses.  We went through an awful lot of stuff related to work - not typical stuff, either, but CSI / Law & Order stuff - and it's just how it is.  Throw some metal in the fire and it somehow solders itself together.  Even after time, when the metal cools, weakens and separates, there's always a little lip or notch where the break took place and those two pieces, when rejoined, will fit back together just so.

And so it was.

I didn't have my glasses on as I trudged through the market with my sulky brood, but I saw him from about a hundred yards away.  I recognized his pace immediately, his loping gait, his posture. It had been a couple years since I'd seen him and I found my heart fluttered delightedly to encounter this familiar figure from my past. With him, I'd done a very Bostonian thing and gone from worst to first in the pecking order of office favor.   Well.  If not first, I made the top three.  (I always found ways to get on his very last nerve and aggravate the ever loving monkey crap out of him.  As one does.)  Also, with him was the last time I felt like The Golden Girl on a daily basis. It was a good feeling and I miss it. The children aren't keen on pumping up parental self regard, and it isn't their job to do so, but dang, what a letdown.

He stopped when he saw me, and it took a moment for it to register - the passage of time, the absence of context - and then we both smiled broadly as the pieces of snapped metal slid back into alignment.

We hugged hello and chatted briefly about each other's health, the children - his, mine - work, hobbies, family well being.  The children have a vague memory of him and shook his hand, all smiles - resentment over the lack of appropriate snack food for boys with turbulent tummies now long forgotten.   They danced around performing a little bit, telling him about their favorite foods, telling him what grade they're in, how old they are now, what they get up to, how much one of them likes being taller than me, how one of them aspires to be taller than me, and how I am mean and won't buy them Oreos.  (Because, child, I will eat them. ALL. OF. THEM. I can't have them in the house.   I'm an Oreoaholic.  And I'm not proud of that.)

Bossman beamed at me, rested his hand on my shoulder, drew me in for a sideways hug, congratulated me on producing such attractive, clever, amusing children, and said my care and nurturing had paid off, was evident in spades.  I choked up quite a bit and got slightly teary.  He laughed, which made me laugh, and we lapsed back into talk about The Good Old Days (which most certainly were not always , or even usually, good).


And then it happened.

He said, "So!  It's been a lot of years!  Got a new ring on that finger by now?"
And then, without waiting, he added, "Well, I have to figure you must have one by now."

A whole different brand of tears welled up inside.  Hot, prickly, shameful tears.  I couldn't even make a real sentence. I just shook my head, no, and muttered, "No, sorry.".

Sorry?  Wait, what?

Why am I sorry?

Then he was sorry!

"Oh, I'm sorry about that.  It didn't work out with that guy?"

Um...well, yes, it did.  Is. Does.  It's working.  Mostly.  Apart from that whole monumentally bereft thing and the lack of a scheduling framework and the protracted periods of separation.  I'm not sure what I mumbled, but it was something like that.

He stared at me, incredulous, and shook his head a little. "I can't believe that."

Well, believe it, Bossman.

Thankfully, Door #2 picked that moment to tug Bossman's elbow and show him that he had a blue tongue and was insisting on being referred to as a Blue Tongued Skink for the rest of the day.

We got back to ogling and admiring my delightful specimens and hugged goodbye and that was that.

I left the store $180 poorer and still forgot the damn gingerale.

So no matter that I have sustained a creative position for seven years in an industry and setting where layoffs come thick and fast, or that I'm parenting a uniquely challenging duo here, or that I've maintained an LDR under what can only be described as difficult circumstances or that I haven't wrinkled up much or any of that.  What still matters at the end of the day to society in general is whether someone loves you enough to mark you as theirs and claim you with the socially accepted token of a ring.  Any ring of precious metal and or stones.  Not even properly a diamond solitaire engagement ring.  No?

Cue noises like:  Eesh.  Ooof.  And insert pained, sucking-through-your-teeth noise here.

Why does it matter?  I don't know.  It just does.  I've tried explaining this. I've tried plainly saying, "I would like a ring.".  I have shopped for one, found one on sale for not much money and posted it with a link to its sale page publicly.

Nothing doing.

And I guess that's ok, because you know?  I've had a ring.  And at the end of the day, it didn't mean anything.  But when you don't have one, your perspective tends to shift and it looks - and feels - very different...to society and to the ringless.

My cheeks were hot all the way through the store.  I felt diminished.  Less than.  Insufficient.  And embarrassed.  One of the children asked whether I'd been hurt, if I felt ok, if I had a sunburn.

Oh, I was burned, all right.

But not by fire; I'd been accidentally grazed by a figuratively  matching piece of solder.

Time has seen the flames dwindle but I'd be lying if I said there weren't embers still quick to glow red with feelings of inadequacy and shame at not being wanted enough to warrant the socially accepted mark of another.

And the question comes unbidden:  Why?

The love is there. It is real and powerful.
The commitment is there and unshakable.

The ring, as I said, doesn't mean much in itself at the end of the day... but ah, the gesture does, and the desire to make that gesture does.

My mind is abuzz with self doubt and questions I cannot answer and do not wish to ask.  And my heart feels quite wrung.