Thread by @sterling_penny

September 29th was a travel day. I was traveling to Pittsburgh to get my daughter so she could go to a doctor’s appointment here in Rochester (she was still on my insurance, which is functionally useless in Pennsylvania).

This was a route I had traveled dozens of times over the last five years, first while she was in college, then during a fellowship, and now that she decided to live there with her fella.

If this sounds like a lot of driving to do, it is, but the driving is mitigated by the fact that a) I like driving, and b) I love my daughter, & I'll jump at any chance I get to spend time with her.

So it’s a well-travelled route, so much so that I can tell you not only how to get there, but also the safest places for a transgender woman traveling alone can stop, and how long those stops will take.

That being said, it should be noted that however long I tell my daughter the drive will be, it is invariably longer that what I said. So much so that it’s kind of a running joke with her:
“I’m leaving now. See you at 4:30.”
“Okay. See you at six.”

I decided this time I'd break that routine & make sure to get there when I said I would. I paid attention to the time I spent at the rest stops, pushed the speed limit where I could, & was ahead of schedule when I pulled into the rest stop to get rid of the coffee I got in Erie.

I was so far ahead of schedule that I took time to enjoy the sunshine & the turning leaves of this beautiful mid-autumn day, even snapping a selfie or two under an oak tree.
Then, because I still had time, I dumped the trash that from my car & drove off.

As I pulled away, I had this feeling something was wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what. While I thought about this, I absently reached out with my right thumb to straighten the ring on my right ring finger. And I hit the brakes.
The ring. My ring was gone.

It was a cheap, cheap ring. The sort you see displayed in those little shops that sell knockoff scarves, pleather purses & cheap jewelry in strip malls, because that’s where I bought it, like five years ago. I bought it during a brunch & browse date with my friend Carson.

We had shown up at the restaurant wearing identical black patent Steve Madden ballet flats with gold lining. Carson was so delighted that this happened that she declared us “twinsies,” even though she was wearing the smallest shoe in the line, and I was wearing the largest.

So when we discovered two identical rings that also fit us both, well, we had to get those too! They were silver-ish, and were worked (or more likely stamped) into the shape of the infinity symbol, and we held our hands out with rings and declared we were “twinsies to infinity!”

It was one of the best afternoons of my life. I felt completely natural and at ease, a girlfriend with her girlfriend, doing silly, girlfriend things.
That’s the sort of goofy stuff Carson and I did.

She was one of the first people I told I was transgender (a good story, but not one for this moment). She was fiercely proud of me & woe unto anyone who misgendered me in front of her.
Two years later, Carson died suddenly, stupidly, & tragically. Her absence hit me very hard.

So that ring became a very important symbol to me. I wore it all the time, everywhere. But because it was this crappy, cheap alloy, it began to get bent out of shape. My cousin’s a jeweler, so I asked him if he might be able to fix it for me.

He pointed out that the rings twin properties of crappiness and cheapness would mean it would be difficult to do that, and also that it would inevitably get knocked out of shape again.

So I wore the ring, and had to make allowances for it, tugging it into gloves, carefully extracting it from sweater sleeves as I dressed, and constantly turning it with my thumb as the symbol slipped off to the side.
Except this time, the ring wasn’t there.

I pulled over, my car at the very far edge of the on ramp to the interstate from the rest stop, a good quarter-mile from where I had parked. I searched around my seat, in my jacket pockets, in my purse, but it was nowhere to be found.

I thought back to the last time I saw it, in the rest room washing my hands. Did I take it off back there? No.
In my heart I knew where it was. I didn’t want it to be there, I didn’t want to do what I'd have to do to get it. Plus if I did this, I would make myself late again.

I sat there, debating whether I should just put the car in drive and forget about the cheap ring. I cursed, slammed into reverse, and backed up into the rest stop.
I checked everywhere I'd been, but I didn’t see it and I knew I wouldn’t. I sighed and went over to the garbage can.

It was one of those industrial public-space cans with the big heavy lid with the big heavy swinging door that you had to push open to drop trash into the can. I vaguely remembered feeling a strange tug as I emptied out my car’s waste container. I opened the lid, & peered inside.

I saw something glitter in my phone’s light. I reached in, gingerly feeling for it. It dropped deeper into the garbage.
This cheap ring wasn’t worth it. Not worth the time. Not worth me digging through fast food, leaky cups and who knows what else. I turned back to the car.

And turned back to the can and ripped the lid off.
I chased the stupid ring all the way down the stupid garbage can. I shucked my jacket, pushed up my sleeves and dumpster dove until I got hold of the damned thing. At some point I realized I was weeping.
I was furious.

Furious that I was doing this for a stupid ring. Furious that the stupid ring was my last tangible link to my dead friend.
I pulled out the ring, put the lid back on, & went inside to wash, hoping no one took my jacket, which I wasn’t gonna touch with my ketchup-covered fingers.

Once I was satisfied I had washed enough, I got the jacket, got into my car, and got on the road, holding the ring in my hand, not sure of what to do with it. Eventually I put it on my finger, but I got scared of what would happen to it if I kept it there.

Shortly after I got home, I took it off and put it on my desk, where I would stare at it every day, occasionally put it on, and then take it off again.
Back in July, I did some standup comedy for friends of mine who are both comics as well as foodies.

When I got there, I sat down to eat dinner with Chris, one of the co-hosts, who immediately got up to run around and do event producer stuff, leaving me with a man I had never met. His name was Adrian & it turned out he’s like one of the more legendary tattoo artists in the area.

I didn’t know that, but he didn’t know he was eating dinner with one of the more legendary transgender storyteller/standup comedians in the area either, so it worked out.

During the meal, I told him that the reason I didn’t have any tattoos was because I could never think of anything I would want to see on my body for the rest of my life. “Well,” he said, “if you ever do come up with something, be sure to let me know.” I told him I would.

It took about a month and a half for me to make the connection, and about a month and a half to get in to see him, which was this afternoon.

It’s a silly little thing, but then again, so was my friend Carson. I miss her terribly, but now I have the reminder of our friendship in a way that will not go away. It’s not the same as having her here, but it will have to do.