Ring Finger

I used to spend hours upon hours in horror. Worried. In constant terror about things that never happen. I think one of the downsides to being funny is that it's all a defense mechanism to being built of pure irrational fear.

I blame the majority of this on the time, when in seventh grade, I put on my late grandfathers wedding ring. My mom gave it to me and told me not to wear it until she'd had it re-sized. I put it on about three minutes later while eating a Hostess cupcake. I put it on my middle finger instead of my ring finger, and thought nothing of it other than that it looked classy. I looked like a man. All I needed was some Tuscany cologne and a double breasted suit, and I could start making decisions about my own bedtime. When I realized my hands were covered in that leftover cupcake felt, I decided to wash my hands. I turned on the warm water and put liquid soap in my hands. Then I realized the ring was on and I didn't know if soap would harm jewelry, mostly because I was an idiot and didnt realize that gold (when real) is pretty indestructable.

I started to pull the ring off, and it didn't move. In fact, my finger had kind of started to throb. My mom came home and I ran upstairs in to the bathroom. "What's wrong?" She asked. Finally I opened the door and showed her a hand covered in scrapes, chocolate and blood. I started to cry a little. Mom said, "What did I tell you? Now we have to go to the Emergency Room."

Fearing the worst, I asked, "What are they going to do?"

"They're going to have to cut it off." she said, matter-of-factly.

I saw my life flash forward in front of me. They're going to cut off my finger because I didn't follow the rules. And this bitch, who had created my finger and harvested it over nine months and 19 hours of labor was speaking as though she was throwing out old bananas.

The next two hours were excruciating. We sat in the waiting room while I replayed all the wonderful moments my middle finger and I had had. The times in the shower when I secretly flipped off no one, just to show how bad I could be, the many egg sandwiches my grandmother had made me that I'd used this finger on to clutch the bread tightly. The only consolation was that I'd finally never have to play a sport again, and since I'd probably not be able to build a fire from sticks, I could probably quit the Cub Scouts at the respectable but still forgiveable Webelos level.

As we walked into the room where I would be amputated, I shook and finally screamed, like Carrie hoping to kinetically light the hospital on fire while pigs blood poured on my hand and lubed it off. My mom pushed me into the room and drew the curtain and asked the nurse for a minute. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!"

"They're going to cut off my finger!"

"Are you retarded?" Mom asked. "They're going to cut off the ring."

Cut ahead to just under 25 years later, a year ago this month. My life had come crashing down personally. Professionally, I was a personal trainer living on nothing in the worst economy of the last 20 years. I had become my greatest fear: Broke, un-loved (maybe forever un-loveable), and without any means to move forward at 30 years old, what was supposed to be my prime. And I had never been more scared. For the first time, I was not funny. I was not able to eat. I was embarrassed and afraid to ask for help, but I was sitting on the floor cleaning up dog puke when I remembered the ring finger. Nothing is as bad as it seems. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. The scariest part of the roller coaster is not the ride. It's the line to get into the cart.

I had been in this line for over twenty years.

I called my Mom and Dad who I hadn't spoken to in two years, afraid they wouldn't talk to me but they did. I told my friends I needed a job and help with the dogs and a shoulder to cry on. And in a flash, I moved to the front of the line. Within 48 hours of the hardest jab to my stomach ever, I had a new job back in the real world--the kind of job I had been afraid to ask for. I had reconnected with friends I hadn't spoken to since college, and I started to become an adult.

I have learned in the last year, thanks to a very special person who guided me along, that life is all about becoming better at being an adult, and I have learned that the best way to become an adult is to be fearless. It is to live without shame, without second-guessing choices made, that if you just take the ring to the God Damn jeweler to be re-sized like your momma told you in the first place, you won't have to go to the ER. And for the next year and beyond my goal is to remain fearless, guileless, and forgiving of myself and others so that I can enjoy a life out of the hospital.