Last year, my ring finger on my left hand had swollen so much I was afraid it might progress to a legitimate medical emergency. Preferring to not pay ER prices for the favor, I decided go DIY on the deal and used a pair of pliers to cut my original wedding band in order to get it off.
A few weeks ago, mental awareness and individual initiative sufficiently merged that I took the ring in for repair.
For the past few years, I’d been thinking about getting a silicon wedding band. Given the remodeling work, mud runs and other inclinations I have, the silicon option seemed like a good one. While admittedly lower on the shiny jewelry scale, there were some key safety factors plus comparative costs regarding the potential loss of the ring.
So far as I know, my dear ole pappy never said, “It is of greater advantage to suffer the deprivation of a relatively inexpensive synthetic ornament than to endure the involuntary surrender of one possessing deeper symbolic and higher intrinsic value.” Nonetheless, I was convinced of the verity of the premise.
Having mused over the proposal for quite a while and having had multiple conversations with myself about the idea, and finding myself conveniently close to Schmidt Jewelers’ display of silicon rings, I decided I’d get one. I opted for a dark bronze color.
Randa’s bewildered response was not what I expected. When I held up my hand to proudly display my new acquisition, she stared at it for a few seconds, then looked at me. She looked as if she’d just woke up with her head sewn to the carpet. “What is that?” I proudly told her, “It’s a silicon wedding ring.”
That did absolutely nothing to change the effect. “A what?” Suddenly it were as if I’d lost all facility with the English language. Or lost all facility, period.
Fairly quickly, I realized that I had failed to include her in any of those conversations I’d had with myself on the subject. Having watched me wear that golden wedding band for nearly twenty-nine years, and then wear nothing on that finger for over a year, she was completely unprepared for the look of a thick, dark bronze-colored ring on my hand. And, she’d never even heard of a “silicon wedding band.” It probably sounded like an oxymoron to her.
Those who know me well understand that I possess some of the qualities of both an ox and a moron. For others, let’s just agree that Randa was far less impressed with my pragmatic romanticism than I had assumed she would be.
Even though I’d readily admit that I might be more prone to the trait than some folks, I suspect that our species often fails to assure shared communication process. We have an idea. We mull it over from time to time. That idea comes to make so much sense to us that we expect others to adopt it instantly, fully and devotedly. We might forget that they have not had the hours of mental processing that we’ve devoted to the topic. Sometimes, I suspect that we also forget that they bring a different set of experiences.
Even when we share the same key values, different perspectives may result in different perceptions.