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I don’t know how I dropped my engagement ring into the lion enclosure at the zoo.  It just happened.  It somehow became entangled in the lion’s mane.

Perhaps I was having second thoughts.  I vaguely remember being nervous and absentmindedly slipping the ring off my finger and playing with it.

You see engagement rings in movies and glass display cases at the mall.  When one is finally presented to you, it’s overwhelming.  Who knew something so small could have so much weight, so much commitment attached to it?

The problem with Jeremy was that he had no problems. He was unabashedly vanilla.  His entire wardrobe came from REI or J Crew, he had coffee at Starbucks every morning and took his chocolate lab, Dexter, to the dog park twice daily.  He had no neuroses to speak of.  There was no adventure on my horizon.

And that is why I was fiddling with the ring.

Embarrassed, I went to the lost and found office and told them my plight.

“We’ll send someone right out,” the lady at the desk with cotton candy hair replied dryly.

Five minutes later, a tattooed lion tamer with a maroon pixie cut came out from the office.  She looked like a bad-ass incarnation of Aphrodite.

I knew before she even spoke a word that I would sell the ring, once she had retrieved it.  I would convince her to run away with me to Hawaii, where we would sell fish or something.  She had to be my goddess, my salvation.  I took a deep breath and smiled.

Jeremy had Dexter, he would be alright.