Three, the Not So Magical Number

After our washing machine died, I was on the phone talking to my Grandma Weber. Ever optimistic, she informed me that I had "better watch out. Bad things always happen in threes." I kind of laughed it off, but maybe I shouldn't have. A couple of weeks after the washing machine died, our aquarium sprung a leak. Luckily, it was a slow leak so water was not gushing everywhere. Granted, I still had to go and buy a new one right away.

And then yesterday number three arrived. I worked in our flowerbeds all afternoon, pulling weeds and digging around in the dirt. I also pulled some weeds and thistles in the yard. I came inside, washed my hands, and realized something was very wrong. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but something was not right. And then it hit me--my wedding ring was gone. I panicked and immediately ran outside to try to find it. Kate, Jack, and I spent the next forty minutes combing the yard and the beds I was working in. I even dumped the yard refuse bag and sorted through it. But it was all to no avail, we could not find it. A friend suggested to go out at night with a flashlight so that the shiny metal would reflect the light, which I will try tonight. I'm also hoping that when we plant our flowers sometime in the next week or so it will show up.

I never realized how traumatizing it would be to lose my ring. In the grand scheme of things it really was not that expensive (compared to the washing machine, or Kate's ring for that matter) and can be replaced. But symbolically it is a huge loss. I felt sick all night about it, not to mention how weird it felt to not be wearing it since I have not taken it off for longer than thirty seconds since our wedding day eight years ago.

Of course, now I am going to have to fend off the ladies right and left when they don't see a ring on my finger...