Wedding Ring Around The Rosie: An Awesome and Embarrassing Tale of Prideless Perseverance.

I was getting married in three days, and I had yet to purchase a wedding band for my soon-to-be. We had nearly agreed to forego this tradition, as my fiancé liked the simple look of her single ring and diamond. However, in the few months prior, she had mentioned several times that she would like an additional band to commemorate our special day. Knowing my financial situation, she was sure to include that it could be any old ring, and that I needn’t worry about impressing her with additional stones, ornate carvings, or the purest of metals — all things that her engagement ring most certainly had. This wasn’t one of those situations where she said one thing but meant another, either, she really is a low maintenance gal, which is just one of many reasons that I love her.

I could have ran with her leniency, but her left ring finger is a reflection of me. It’s a public display of my love for her. In daily interactions people will think of me, whether they know me or not, when they’re blinded by the shiny rock between her knuckles. It had to look good.

Unfortunately, weddings are expensive, as are once-in-a-lifetime honeymoons to Europe. My now wife and I used every extra penny we had to ensure that our Fourth of July wedding would be one heck of final day of independence for the both of us, and that our trip across the pond would be two weeks we’d never forget. Any loose tender found its way into a giant Mason Jar. We sold countless possessions, I played an extra musical gig here and there, and we lived thrifty lives, stuffing that jar to the brim. We were like two kids saving for a new toy. To complicate things even more, I was in the middle of a transitional year of sorts, working in a behavioral health hospital for peanuts while studying and getting licensed for work in finance. I spent three hours every week with a needle in my arm, donating plasma at the local clinic. This is what it had come to — literal blood, sweat, and tears.

Without any intentions, I drove to the jewelry store. Much like the process of choosing an engagement ring, finding the perfect wedding band took minutes. I knew it when I saw it. And it was just the right size!

“What is the least amount I can pay for this ring now if I cover the rest in 90 days?” I blurted out.
“$400…” The clerk answered with a slight upward inflection.
“$300?” I countered.
“That would work,” she said matter-of-factly.
“I’ll be right back, I have to take care of a few things.” I yelled this over my shoulder as I kicked through the door and jogged out into the parking lot. She had to have assumed the worst — armed robbery, a drug deal; maybe even prostitution.

But I had other plans. They just sort of came to me. The lease would be up on my apartment in a matter of weeks, so I could fund most of this purchase with the return of my security deposit. Being the financial guru that I am, I don’t really believe in credit cards, so I was determined to find a way to pay for this thing in cash. I only needed $300.

I may have understated just how poor I was at this particular time in my life, but I think the first stop on my journey should clear that up. After tearing out of the parking lot, I pulled into a nearby gas station and rifled through both the glove compartment and center console of my Corolla. I was looking for spare change or misplaced bills, but I found something much sweeter — a winning scratch-off lottery ticket. While only a five dollar winner, I sure felt like I had hit the jackpot. That wrinkled rectangular receipt felt more like a bar of solid gold than anything else. I traded it in for a couple of gallons of gasoline and watched as the arrow moved from slightly below ‘E’ to a notch or two above. I felt pathetic, yet excited. I was an oyster with a grain of sand.

After refueling, I sped off to what I had affectionately been calling “the bank.” Truth be told, it was the plasma clinic, but I felt much better calling it “the bank” in public. This made me feel like less of a desperate degenerate, and more like a man who had his life together. Plus, I made bi-weekly deposits and withdrawals, so it seemed right. I went through the screening process as usual.

“Have you ever been to Africa?” “No.”
“Are you a heroin addict?” “No.”
“Have you ever had sex with a man?” “No.”
Blood pressure cuff…Prick of the finger…Step on the scale….Slam two cups of water.
The only thing I knew better than this process was my ABC’s.

While being led back to my recliner, I noticed that instead of being set to The History Channel as usual, someone had decided to play a movie on the donation room television sets. I was pretty disgusted until I realized that Nicholas Cage was searching for hidden treasure by decoding a map on the back of the Declaration of Independence. I couldn’t decide if his or my quest for jewels was more of a longshot, but it took some serious self-control on my part to stay the course. The blood zoomed out of my arm and through the winding tube, it spun through the moaning machine, then returned. I watched the empty bottle trickle full of amber liquid as I furiously pumped the wad of paper towel in my hand, assuming my regular routine of racing the folks in the chairs to my left and right. Winning of course, I raised my fist in the air to stop the bloodflow to my arm, and also to secretly celebrate my victory. Suckers. Dizzy as usual, I drank my mandatory Powerade, made my bank withdrawal, and cautiously exited the building. According to my calculations, a tenth of that ring was mine.

As I mentioned earlier, I am a musician. I played in an indie rock band that had released a moderately successful record almost a year prior to commencing this little quest. I had recently been contacted by a local record store employee informing me that his store had sold out of the stock that we had provided them. He told me to bring in a fresh batch and to get paid for the inventory that had already moved. This was my next stop. I arrived at the store in my already humiliated state…I mean, I used lotto winnings to fill my car with gasoline so that I could drive around town scraping together a measly $300. Naturally, the man behind the counter had never heard of my band and insisted that they had never sold a single copy of our album. I contended that I had been contacted by one of his colleagues who had told me otherwise. We quibbled back and forth until he finally located the appropriate files on his computer. His surprise brought me an inappropriate amount of joy, which he quickly squelched by refusing to take more than a single record for their stock going forward. No matter. The ka-ching of the cash register clouded every other desire in that moment. I continued on.

My next destination included much of the same. I visited a second record store to check on the consignments that I had left with them as well. I met the same bearded incredulity, but left with even more cash than I did from the previous shop. Things were looking good. I had crossed the halfway mark.

With the finish line in sight, I drove over to my band’s practice space. I toyed with the idea of worrying about how much further five dollars worth of fuel would carry me, but at that point, I knew I could cross any bridge standing in my way. Onward. I snooped through cables and pedals and other long-forgotten gear and came up with a few items that I was willing to part with. I chose my first electric guitar and amp, which had been completely useless to me for years (save for their nostalgic value), another obsolete piece of gear that I had replaced in my setup, and a mandolin, which I did not want to get rid of unless absolutely necessary. I loaded these pieces into my trunk and headed to the nearest pawn shop.

Walking in, I glanced at the jewelry case. I didn’t want anybody’s ex-wife’s ring, but just seeing the collection of gold, silver, and diamonds was a healthy reminder of the motivation behind this whirlwind of a day. I had been focusing primarily on the goal of acquiring $300 at all costs, rather than the idea of purchasing a priceless keepsake that my future wife would wear and enjoy for the rest of her life. I couldn’t help but wonder about what sacrifices were made to purchase these shiny circles, tucked away in little caskets, resting in that glass mausoleum of memories. I was sure each one had a story just like this.

The sound of a wailing guitar in the distance reminded me of why I had entered the store in the first place, but being in a pawnshop made it difficult to know if I’d actually snapped out of my daydream. I turned around and made my way to the dealmaker on duty, passing a heaping pile of vacuum cleaners, a collection of samurai swords, a stuffed cheetah, and an overflowing rack of clown suits. The counter was nearly buried in guns, but I found some clear space and heaved my guitar, amp, and gear up on top so that it could be inspected. I had left the mandolin in the car with my fingers crossed.

“How much will you give me for this stuff?” I said, wishing afterward that I had given it a bit more of a flowery description.

Without saying a word the gruff gentlemen grunted and grabbed some loose cables to connect all of the pieces together. He flipped on the amp and fumbled through a version “Smoke on the Water.” He tackled a few blues scales and then bent over and the hit the power switch off with a flick.

“$120.” He said, more matter-of-factly than the jewelry store clerk.
“Could you do $140?” I begged, also adding what the pieces retailed for, new.
“Sure.” He mumbled.

Sure?…Sure?…that’s it?…I’d done it? I’d done it! Three hundred ten bucks. I didn’t even try to hide my excitement. I nearly jumped out of my shoes. Stranger things have happened in pawn shops, I’m sure. I’d be lying if I said that my main concern in making that negotiation wasn’t keeping my mandolin, but it worked on both accounts, and this goose chase was over. I scribbled my way through a stack of waivers and provisions (who knew that a pawn shop transaction required so much paperwork?), grabbed my cash, sprinted through the door, and smacked the “Play Like a Champion Today” sign hanging above the frame on my out. Success.

Back at the jewelry store, I was much more nonchalant. Everybody has $300 in their bank account…nothing to see here. I approached the clerk I had spoken with earlier in the day and told her that I was ready to purchase the wedding band as we had discussed. This process was a little anticlimactic (who knew that a jewelry store transaction required so little paperwork?). The employee pulled the ring out of the case, wrapped it neatly in a glittery bag, and sent me on my way. I asked a few questions about repaying my remaining balance before strolling out the door and into the July sun.

I gently placed my prized package in the passenger seat and situated myself behind the wheel. My Corolla sat in the same parking space from which this adventure had begun just hours before. Looking down at my fuel gauge, the arrow once again hovered in the empty space slightly below the letter ‘E.’ I couldn’t help but laugh. I pulled my phone from my pocket to send a text the young lady who was worth it all.

“I’ve got an awesome story to tell you. You’ll just have to wait three days.”

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From : https://medium.com/@justplainmanly/wedding-ring-around-the-rosie-an-awesome-and-embarrassing-tale-of-prideless-perseverance-8f0726a63d5