Where I Am: Lisa’s Makeup Table

What I’m Doing: Wallowing in my Dumbassitude

Perhaps it would have been better to write it backwards, like the writing on the front of ambulances, so that the message scrawled on my forehead served not only to warn others of what I am but also to remind me that I am, indeed, a dumbass.

I’m pointing to that finger because that was the finger my wedding ring used to be on. I think. I’m such a dumbass that I’m unsure if I’m pointing to the correct finger or even the correct hand. There’s no convenient matted hair or skanky yet strangely enticing smell left marking the spot like when my watch comes off. My hand’s just a little bit lighter.

You see, I’ve lost my wedding ring.

My fingers have always been skeleton-like, with the bone wearing the flesh and muscle only out of a sense of duty and not because it feels like it’s fooling anyone. Somehow when I lost weight again after the wedding, my fingers got a bit thinner as well and my ring became loose. It wasn’t always loose, but when it was it would come flying off my hand with the slightest gesture. This was the case when I lost it.

I was shuffling around some banking as I waited in my car at the drive-up teller. My ring flew off and I didn’t see where. I got out of the car, carefully scanning the ground to make sure it hadn’t landed on me and subsequently fallen off me outside the car. I poured over the car’s interior and did once again when I got back to the office. I pulled up the driver’s side upholsetery to see if the ring had somehow magically seeped through the chair cover. It hadn’t.

So now I’m ringless. Lisa and I are both taking it in strides. It’s upsetting, but nothing too earthshattering. Hopefully, once I remove my car seats, I’ll find the damn thing.

I hope.