As Ian and I were cleaning up after dinner, he reminded me of something on our trip I had forgotten about in the mess that was O'Hare.
As we were boarding the plane in Kansas City (two hours late, don't forget), the very pleasant family beside us with two girls and a nap-deprived baby (who the mom kept apologizing for) found a ring on the floor. They asked around, but no one claimed it. The mom said it was too bad, since she thought it looked like a wedding ring. I asked to take a look, in case there were any identifying marks.
There were — elvish, to be precise. I piped up. "I'm kind of a Lord of the Rings nut, and I'm pretty sure this is a replica of the one ring."
A guy waiting in the aisle piped up that if someone just put it on, we'd know for sure if he or she disappeared.
The mom handed it off to the flight attendants, who announced that a passenger found a ring and if you lost it, describe it to the crew and you can have it back.
The mom looked at me and laughed, saying if I tried to claim it, she would know I was lying. I assured her I didn't want the responsibility. It's not like our flight was to Mordor with Dwight Shrute, after all.
It was a very welcome laugh after such a long wait in the airport!
