If it’s not measuring up to her standards, it’s time for something new

The diamond from my wife’s engagement ring is missing.

It could be anywhere: in the house, the back yard, the car.

She’s retraced her steps a dozen times and remains optimistic it’ll turn up, but as the days grow shorter and darkness falls earlier, I have my doubts.

I’ve offered to replace it, perhaps as a Christmas present, but she’s not interested in anything but the original.

This runs counter to the way she treats most things.

If, for example, a beach chair develops a tear or begins showing too much rust, she’s quick to take it to the recycling center and buy a new one.

It’s the same thing with clothes that go out of fashion or a piece of high-tech gadgetry that proves unreliable.

Her modus operandi — her pattern of life — is if it’s not measuring up to her standards, it’s time for something new.

But that doesn’t apply to the missing diamond.

“I just couldn’t,” she’ll say when I bring up the subject of having a new one mounted in the setting. “I love that one.”

And I understand that.

I can remember that spring afternoon in 1990 when I drove to the mall, walked purposefully to the jewelry store and listened as Bob, the sympathetic salesman who seemed to intuit my nervousness, guided me through the process, even allowing me to light up right there in the showroom.

“You’re doing fine,” Bob said as the minutes stretched to an hour, then two. “Just take your time.”

Well, that’s what I did. In fact it would be another 18 years before I finally got married, but I figured, “What’s the rush, right?”

That engagement ring came to symbolize something far beyond a simple question-and-answer interlude, something that meant more than your typical “Will you marry me?” moment.

Truth be told, when I did — in my awkward and idiosyncratic way — the woman who’d accepted was crying.

And not because she was overwhelmed with joy.

Let’s just say I kind of botched it, butchering my words and giving the impression I wasn’t really ready for that big step.

But that’s another story for another day.

Over the years that spanned the astonishing length of our engagement to our wedding on the beach on Oct. 22, 2007, that engagement ring had more than its share of adventure.

From the time my fiancée showed it to my disbelieving family to the several occasions she jerked it off her finger and flung it away — once onto a major highway — it bore witness to our ever-evolving relationship, one that’s lasted more than 30 years.

And now the diamond is missing.

It happened once before, not all that long ago, and my wife came across it as she was vacuuming sand from the back seat of the car.

“Look what I found!” she said, bursting into tears, hugging me.

I had it remounted. Though looking back, I probably should have had the entire setting, prongs and all, replaced.

Too late now.

All I can do is keep looking down.

And that’s something I do habitually, it seems.

In 2003 when my column began reappearing in newspapers back home after an absence of nearly four years, the editor wrote something like this as he reintroduced me:

“For someone who spends as much time walking around with his eyes on the ground, I’ve never known anyone who sees so much.”

Which was awfully nice.

My wife — then my girlfriend — said something similar after she’d taken in the first softball game she’d seen me play.

“Are you aware,” she asked, “that you’re always pacing around first base, staring at the dirt?”

I shook my head.

“I wasn’t even aware of it,” I said. “Really?”

“I kept worrying that you wouldn’t be ready if someone hit the ball at you,” she said. “But you were always ready.”

And she was right.

I was in my own world, running through possibilities, getting it straight in my mind, just pacing around, thinking, looking down.

All week long I’ve been putting up Christmas decorations, and from the dining room to the stereo room, the kitchen to the bedroom, I’ve brought in boxes from the garage.

And kept my eyes lowered, searching for that sparkle, the one that would signal an end to my quest.

Sometimes I feel a little like Gollum in “The Lord of the Rings,” hoping against hope to find that diamond, that precious stone.

My wife’s been very consistent even since it went missing.

“I’m very happy wearing my wedding ring,” she says, “and I’m very happy with our life together.”

And that’s all a guy needs to hear.

Somewhere along the line, I guess I learned how to be a pretty good husband, though Lord knows I still screw up a ton.

I was stirring my special spaghetti sauce the other night, waiting for the meal to be ready, when I set down the spoon and walked into the sun room.

The sun had set, and I began lighting the various displays I’d set up earlier that day: the Nativity scene that’s been in the family forever, the characters from “A Christmas Carol,” Snoopy atop his flying doghouse and the entire array of “Peanuts”-related figurines.

As I took it all in, feeling quite seasonal, the smoke alarm began shrieking, and I remembered the garlic toast I’d left in the oven.

If and when the diamond from my wife’s engagement ring turns up, it’ll be that kind of a surprise, one that comes out of nowhere, something you notice just in time.

Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. He invites you to join the fun on his Facebook page.