Yesterday, Garry Armstrong, Marilyn’s other half, shared a very humorous post about the day he lost his car keys. As we get older, it seems we each experience more and more of these so-called senior moments. And when I read — and related to — Garry’s post, I was reminded of a senior moment I had this summer.
Every morning, after I get up and take my shower, I get dressed and I put on my watch and my wedding band. I wear my wedding band, as most of us do, on the ring finger of my left hand. I’ve been doing this every single day of my life since my wife and I got married in 1978, so for 42 years.
Anyway, a few months ago, after I got home from walking our dog in the morning, I noticed that I didn’t have my wedding band on. I was sure that I remembered putting it on that morning, but maybe I had gotten distracted or something. I went to the bedroom and looked on my chest of drawers to see if it was there. Nope. Then I went into the bathroom to see if, perhaps, I had left it on the sink. Nope.
Then I thought it must have somehow fallen off my finger when I was walking the dog. I remembered that she had seen a squirrel and had tugged at the leash, and maybe that was when the band flew off. So I went outside and carefully retraced my steps from the morning walk, my eyes focused on the street, the curb, and the grassy areas onto which she might have wandered. But after about an hour of meticulously searching, I came up empty handed. Or empty banded.
I walked back into the house and said to my wife, “Don’t be mad, but I lost my wedding band.” Then I asked her if she had, by any chance, seen it.
She looked at me and said, “I have seen it.”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” I said. “Where is it?”
She reached over and grabbed my right hand and held it out in front of me. “It’s on your ring finger,” she said.
Sure enough, there was my wedding band securely situated on the ring finger of my right hand. My right hand! For the first time in 42 years, I had somehow put my wedding band on the ring finger of my right hand instead of where it belongs and has resided for 42 years — on the ring finger of my left hand.
“Oops,” I said. My wife just shook her head.