The guy who came to put my window AC units in had one. The  man I talked to at the wedding who was standing by the wine table had one. I squinted hard at the photo of the novelist whose book I just finished but couldn’t see one. A google search told me that there’s one somewhere – maybe he keeps it in his underwear drawer. The dads at the swimming pool who toss the kids into the air all wear them. Neon signs of takenness, of belonging elsewhere. I liked high school and college better – no rings, only possibility. Now the world is a grid, a chess board with the ringed on one side and a ragtag army of the unattached on the other.