Our wedding rings arrived the other day, after a long delay at the border that had us a little anxious about whether or not they’d get here before the event.
“No matter,” I said, “We’ll use some wool instead.”
I even pulled out the handspun that O made me back in the summer, and left it easily accessible at the top of my yarn stash. If one can’t have custom metal rings, what better replacement than fibre carefully teased into string by a beloved friend? In fact, when Oats and I got together, we were amazed to find that O was the one person we had in common before we met one another: She’d been my friend since we became biology lab partners in the second week of university, and then in later years she had classes with Oats. So in weaving the cloth of our own relationship, the first little thread was contributed by O, though none of us knew it at the time… Thus making it fitting that her handspun would be called in for the task of joining us in matrimony, don’t you think?
But romance of wool aside, the rings arrived, and they are lovely. Putting them on, I got a little teary, which is almost the first time since we began this whole wedding adventure that my cynical and pragmatic sides have been beating down by the sheer emotionality of it all. Pragmatic me says that life is easier when my fingers are naked, cynical me says that precious-metal rings symbolise the economic contract that is the capitalistic function of marriage… And then suddenly I’m all like:
“SO PRETTY! Look how softly they shine! Look how nice it looks when we both have them on and our hands are next to each other! Awwwww… Look at how gorgeous the inscriptions are! Wow. *Sniff* *Sniff*…”
[insert poignant silence and eye-dabbing here]
I suppose I should be posting photos to go with this post, hey? I’ll get to work on that this evening.