On the Fifth Day of Blogmas: Golden Rings

Allargando: an Italian musical term meaning to widen or “broaden” the tempo. (I guess those seven years I poorly played violin weren’t a total waste.)

If you were to look at a piece of sheet music for “The Twelve Days of Christmas” you would see allargando (printed allarg. or rit.) above the notes for the infamous line, five golden rings….

Allargando tells the musician to slow down, expand. Which is what I plan on for today’s blog: taking it slow and expanding on a small detail. 

It’s January 2020 and I am sitting in a kafana in Belgrade. Aleksa and I are celebrating our engagement with his friend group — most of whom I am meeting for the first time in this dark, smoky bar. 

Days earlier, Aleksa and I had been vacationing in Italy: the icy winds of Venice chapping our dry faces. We had been jumping from train to train and city to city: Rome, Florence, Milan … Venice was the last stop. 

And on the last day of our whirlwind holiday, Aleksa popped the question. It was maybe 4 in the afternoon, the sun beginning to set over the glasslike waters of the Venetian lagoon.

I said yes; he placed the golden ring on my left ring finger (he insisted on my right hand, at first, the Serbian way). I held my hand out in front of me, the dainty, round diamond sparkling in the orange-tinged sky. I thought to myself, this looks like a painting: my ring, my hand, and Saint Mark’s Basilica in front of me.

That artistic outlook soon dwindled. In the kafana, now celebrating our happy futures, my ring finger was starting to resemble something less than picturesque. My entire left hand became unbearably itchy — the area around the golden ring swollen and blistered. Even in the dark crowd of the bar, surrounded by all of Aleksa’s friends, I couldn’t help but imagine taking steel wool to my finger. What could absolve this terrible itch?

On the plane back to America — some of the passengers now wearing masks and flight attendants chattering about a “Wuhan virus” — I continued to scratch. I thought my condition had to be the result of an eczema flare up. When I was a child, my doctor ordered my mother to give me oatmeal baths to soothe the sting I’d develop from scratching at the dry, flaky patches on my skin. In college, I’d eventually forego fragrance in my soaps altogether to avoid breaking out into welts that would eventually become eczema.

I rationalized that between the new ring on my finger and the mittens and the cold air … plus the excitement, the new countries and their new dust mites —  I was due for an eczema flare up.

But the blistering patches didn’t let up back in New York. I Googled what the rash could be, landing on everything from dyshidrosis to psoriasis. I polled my social group — my dear friends Nyx and Danny took one look and said, “Yeah, you should see a doctor.”

It seems fairly obvious, now, how this would end: the doctor snapping off the cream-colored gloves and saying “As I suspected, it’s contact dermatitis.” I sat on that procedure chair in the office, the crinkly paper making little rips with my movement.

“Contact dermatitis?” I repeated. “An allergen?”

He nodded his head in that reserved doctorly way. “You’re allergic to the ring.” The patch test confirmed this: gold and I were not friends. 

It made enough sense; I have an overactive immune system as is. When it comes to my skin, I live with chronic urticaria (recurring hives) dermatographia (skin writing/pressure hives) and eczema. 

And when I was small, my ears would swell up whenever I wore earrings that weren’t made from genuine metals. We made a special trip to Pagoda at the mall when I got my ears pierced for my Holy Communion in third grade. I remember my mother splurging on the nickel-free studs.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t fathom the cruel reality that was mine: being allergic to my engagement ring. How could I be allergic to this symbol of eternal love? How could I show my commitment to my fiance — a man four-thousand-miles away from me? I loved looking down at my ring for the reminder that Aleksa had given it to me. It made me feel connected to him even with several time zones and an ocean between us.

And one is meant to wear their engagement ring proudly. It was the stuff of all the great romances I had ever read, all those wondrous proposals and dazzling heirlooms. How could this be happening? 

The paper still crinkling under me, and my thoughts racing, the doctor wrote out some tall orders: a prescription for a strong steroid cream and a demand to take the damn ring off. 

Waiting at CVS for them to call my name, I considered my issues. What would I tell Aleksa? Would he believe that I was allergic or would the whole thing seem like some overzealous lie? Would he think I was backing out or that I disliked the ring? That would be terrible; I loved the ring he chose.

I knew that it would pain him, in some way, that I couldn’t wear the ring. On the night we were engaged, he told me the story about acquiring the ring: “I returned from America and said to my dad, ‘This is the girl I want to marry.’ And the next day, I bought the ring.’” 

In the stale aisles of CVS, I worried that this inconvenience would dampen our romance. I tried to think of a solution, but until I returned to Serbia, I didn’t see what could be done. Aleksa and I would have to visit the jeweler in Belgrade together. 

What I didn’t expect is that that visit would not happen for another year. In between the healing of my rash and informing Aleksa of the allergen, a new crisis was taking shape: the spread of COVID-19. My college shut down quickly and my belongings were shipped off to my parent’s home in Connecticut. This daunting problem suddenly seemed frivolous.

The ring sat conveniently in its velvet box upon my dresser — my rotating wardrobe of loungewear, which seemed like all I wore during lockdown, stuffed in the dresser’s wooden drawers. Every few days, I’d open the box to brush the felt-inside meant to protect the ring. Initially, I held great fondness for this “window” into my love-life. If I couldn’t wear the ring, at least I could admire its beauty.

But when autumn arrived, I grew bitter. The borders were still closed and Aleksa and I had not seen each other in 10 months. The ring box was a perfect Jamesian study: the representation of what my life was supposed to be.

Unable to wear the ring and unable to see Aleksa, I began to worry that maybe the universe was attempting to tell me this wasn’t meant to be. The more rational voice in my head explained that the pandemic didn’t exist just to provide me with a romantic life lesson — but not knowing when I would see my fiancé again had a way of twisting reality. 

When I announced I would be returning back to New York City despite there being no vaccine advancements, my family surprisingly didn’t fight back. I think they, too, knew I needed to get out of there. 

Returning did provide some comfort; I enjoyed reconnecting with friends and walking through a mostly-vacant Manhattan. But I felt a horrible sadness for myself when friends would Facetime me about their budding romances. The kisses exchanged, the official “girlfriend and boyfriend” status, the dim-lit dinners in the city’s restaurants (where temperatures had to be taken before entering the establishments).

I decided I needed to take some control. I ordered a pack of costume rings on Amazon — they would have to suffice as placeholders for my naked ring finger.

Whenever I wore them, I thought of them as costume jewelry rather than my ring. But it still felt nice to wear something — anything to feel like I was claiming some kind of identity. Honestly, it might have been a pack of five golden rings, for all I know.

When Aleksa and I eventually reunited, it was in Belgrade. He confessed a few days into the visit that the jewelers shop wasn’t open because of COVID-19. I remember being disappointed, but it wasn’t the grievance it had been months ago. The ring debacle was all but a tragedy: the inability to express my love for someone who could not be with me in my country.

But when I did eventually get my new ring, we went with a reasonable silver band and an emerald-shaped stone. I considered the old shape — the dainty, round diamond — but it no longer felt accurate to our tale. An emerald shape is meant to represent new beginnings; a great commitment; and vivid clarity. It was the second easiest choice we had made together.

Cumatively Yours,

That American Girl