The day I finally admitted my wedding ring didn't fit

His ring still fits…the skinny bastard.

For almost two years now, my mother has been very poorly concealing the fact that she thinks my marriage is a shambles.  She tries to ask about my relationship casually; often in the form of a quick "So things are going okay with you guys?" inserted at the close of a conversation, intended to sound like an afterthought but drenched in obsessive undertones.

Why the thinly veiled desperation?  Why the worry?

Because I don't wear my wedding ring.

I have not consistently worn my wedding ring in over 18 months.  My first round of responses to the inevitable "Where's your ring?" were focused mainly on the fact that I was for all intents and purposes unemployed and just getting around to changing out of my pajamas was considered an accomplishment, let alone accessorizing, for crying out loud.  Plus, my fingers always swell up during the summer.  From June - mid-September, I'm a puffy, sweaty, ringless mess.

After that, my excuse pendulum swung in the complete opposite direction; suddenly, I didn't need to wear my wedding ring, because why would someone so entirely in love with every fiber of her being need a shiny little piece of bejeweled metal to remind her of that fact?

Honestly, the nerve of some people.

For the last six months or so, my ongoing defense has been a combination of all of the above.  This has been particularly hard lately, when the ever-drying air has left my puffiness excuse somewhat - well - deflated.

The truth:

My wedding ring doesn't fit.  Period.

A piece of jewelry like a wedding ring is a pretty easy marker in the timeline of one's life.  Most of us (hopefully) remember the exact date that we first put it on, and thanks to fuzzy memories, blog posts, photos, and other data we can pretty much extrapolate our body's relative composition at the time.

Based on my calculations, I've gained about thirty pounds since my wedding day nearly four years ago.  And that's a very rough, very kind-to-my-already-bruised-ego estimate.

Thirty pounds.  Well shit.

I can't deny it any longer.  Denying it isn't fair to myself, my goals, or apparently my own mother.

This is why I have to do something about it.

Thanks for reading.