By Mark David Blum, Esq.

Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned. This sin is one of the biggies too. My wedding ring; it is lost. This will be the second one in just one marriage. “She” doesn’t know yet because I will not give up the hunt. My confidence levels are dropping with each moment. For all I know, Frodo swiped it and is off on some adventure to throw it down a volcano. If I do not find it, Krakatoa will be a dribble glass compared to the eruption in this house.

No, I did not take it off to hide my marital status. I was not in a bar nor was I visiting a strange woman. It has nothing to do with a woman. More than anything, it had to with fat hands and salt. Sometime between last night and this morning, a period of time in which I have been under constant surveillance, I took off my ring because it was tight and … I have no recollection of what I did next.

I do not recall if I did this in bed or in the living room or the bathroom. What I do recall is that I used to have a wedding ring and this morning I do not.

Wedding rings and I do not get along. Actually weddings and I do not get along. Probably better stated, marriage and I do not get along. Although I am about to hit the big TWO OH in years married to my current bride, I am by no means good husband material.

My first marriage ended in disaster. That could have been easily foretold from the moment we took our vows. At that magical moment, she vowed to take me as her “AWFULLY” wedded husband. She said she was nervous. Trust me, the marriage was indeed awful and over within a handful of years.

But when I met my current bride all those millennia ago and being very leery but oh so much in love, I popped the big stupid question. Of course she agreed and plans were immediately set afoot for a wedding. I still remember the day we went to downtown San Francisco to shop for wedding rings. We looked and looked until we found exactly the ones she wanted and ordered them and had them inscribed.

Two days before the festivities, we go down to pick up the rings. Mine is 13 sizes too large. Apparently the knucklehead jeweler, being of Middle Eastern descent, went European on me and had originally measured my RIGHT hand. Of course there was no time to re-order, so we ended up with rings in stock. I got a helluva discount but that is more a genetic thing. Ring #1 lost.

Ring number two only lasted about three years or so. Within hours of me having taken the Bar exam, the Mrs. and I were on a plane to Jamaica to do our damndest to forget everything we had gone through in the past three years. It worked, since according to so many briefs I have read over the years, I haven’t been right on any issue – ever.

On one of those days in Jamaica, all oiled and tanned, rummed and mellowed and floating around in the sea, my wedding ring slipped off my finger. Between the oil and water temperature, my finger apparently shrunk enough for the ring to just fall off. That was the first time I ever opened my eyes in sea water as I watched it slowly twiddle off into the depths. I offered a $100 reward for anybody who finds the ring and kids from all over were diving for a week. Alas, but no ring.

Ring #3 has made it this far and it has to be here. As for me, I don’t like to feel “owned” and a wedding ring has all the earmarks of ownership. I don’t need to advertise I am married. Take a look at me … fat, ugly, and no girlfriend. Either I am gay or I am married. No ring is going to change that.

Wish me luck. Should I fail my quest, methinks the Queen of Mordor will personally ring my neck.