OK, I f**ked up. Not in the way you think, though. I’m not that stupid…
The story is this: last year, when my then-fiancée and I went for a fitting with her engagement ring, we figured we might as well test out wedding rings. ‘Cause the whole point of having an engagement ring is that you will get married — eventually. So I had a try as well and was told my finger size was 59, whatever that means. All I know is my fiancée’s was 50 or 51, because I’m a man’s man — and she, luckily, isn’t.
Then, earlier this summer, we actually ordered our wedding rings. And we went for another fitting just in case. My fiancée wanted to try out one size down (so, I guess, 49) because she felt her engagement ring was a little loose. So I tried too, again… and got a bit of a scare when I couldn’t take off a 59-sized ring. The thing is, with the heat, my finger had grown enough for me to be almost incapable of getting rid of that ring. Which is technically the desired effect, except if it has health consequences. So I decided I would get a size 60 ring instead, because what the hell, nothing is too big for man’s man.
Then came the wedding and I got to wear my size 60 ring — and my wife got to wear her size 49 — and all was well in the world of our cat. The thing is, we got married on August 31st, with ridiculously good weather (that’s an expression, nothing actually ridiculous about it), so my hand had expanded enough from the heat that the ring fit just right. And we laughed, and we danced (even me) and we drank (except for me)… until the wee hours of 3:25 am, because everyone was exhausted by then because I’m old and so are my friends. My wife’s too, to be fair, but I don’t want to sound too judgmental here.
Then came fall. And, with fall, relative cold. I say relative because, even today, on October 1st, it’s still 20°C in Paris, i.e. warm enough to wear a t-shirt outside. The reason I know this is because I walked (almost) all the way to the shop we got our wedding rings from. The thing is — I’d started noticing that the ring was getting a little loose now that my fingers were not overly swollen from the heat. And, one day, as I was brushing off cat hair on my sweater, the ring basically popped off and I had to crouch behind the litter box to find it.
As I figured this was not such a good sign, I decided I would wait it out for a couple of days and, if the ring still felt jumpy, I would have it resized. One size down. Like a smaller man’s man. Which I did. Because it turns out my fingers were abnormally swollen this summer, and that I’m actually a size 59, although that obviously has no relation with my masculinity whatsoever.
And now I have to wait for 3 to 4 weeks to get my wedding ring back. And suffer my wife’s judging eye. Not because I don’t have my ring on, but because I called her friends old. I think.