It surprised me, too. When I married my husband, we couldn't afford an engagement ring. We could barely afford wedding rings. We decided that since he was the one who spent most of his time in an office and I most of mine at home, he should get the better ring. At the time, I told myself that it didn't matter what kind of ring I had, as long as the fucker was on my finger. It was a symbol, after all, not the whole enchilada. I settled for a simple, five dollar silver band. We spent a little over three hundred dollars on his gold band.
It took eight years for us to be able to afford a real wedding ring for me and it wasn't until I put it on my hand, all just over a carat of its sparkly little self, that I realized how I had earlier devalued myself and how much the ring was supposed to be symbolizing. I worry about what five dollars says about the value we both placed on me at the time.I know better now, of course. More about marriage and what that ring means and I certainly place more value on me and my own worth. If I could have, I would spent five or six thousand this time around and you can bet that, eight years from now, I am going to expect one hell of an expensive anniversary ring.
