I’m a little worried about marriage.

Not mine, mind you, but the institution.

And I’m not necessarily talking in the economy-in-the-tank-puts-a-strain-on-families sense.

I’m talking about this: Twice in the past three weeks, on rides to or from work, I’ve found wedding/anniversary-type bands, and as far as I can tell, there’s only one woman in this town looking for such a thing, and neither one belongs to her.

I’ve blogged before about my luck in finding stuff during rides, everything from change and small bills to cell phones and credit cards.

Though I pocket some of the goodies (like the small bills), I do try to return the returnable items, like the cell phones, and I’ve had awfully good luck with that, though sometimes I wonder why I go to the trouble.

Once, a grateful cell-phone owner insisted that I drive to Baldwin to return her precious. I declined. Reluctantly, she agreed to meet me in town, then drove away without so much as a thank you.

More recently, I found a cell phone on a run. I called the most recent number called, explained how I’d come to find the phone, and the person on the other end handed off to the found phone’s owner.

“How’d you get my phone?” he asked gruffly.

I said I’d found it.

“Well, what are you doing with it?”

I explained that I picked it up, lest it get run over, and brought it home in the hopes that I could return it.

“What are you doing with it?”

Gee, I dunno, trying to get it back to you? Do you want it or not? I’d be glad to put it back where I found it.

Finally, I guess, it sunk in, and we arranged a meet — at which point the kid took the phone, checked it out, proclaimed that, yes, it was, in fact, his (no kidding, Einstein) and took off with a grunt (not of thanks, incidentally, but an indication of what a mental struggle it was to come to terms with the fact I actually was trying to help him out).

Which brings me to the rings.

A couple of weeks ago, I was riding to work when I saw something glistening in the middle of the road not far from the hospital.

I circled back and found a small golden wedding-type ring.

I placed a “Found” ad in the paper, and the morning of the day it first ran, I received a call from a woman trying to find a long-lost wedding band that had belonged to her father. She described it, and it was nothing like the one I found. We wished each other luck and hung up.

Then … nothing.

Curiously, about a week and a half later, I was riding home, this time by the Holidome, when, again, my eye caught a glimpse of something twinkling in the road.

This time, it was a little fancier. Let’s just say it’s not just gold.

Again I placed a “Found” ad, and, sure enough, the first day it ran the same woman called to see if it was her dad’s band.

I called back and let her know that, no, it wasn’t.

And that brings us to my worry about the institution of marriage.

If I ever lost my wedding band — or maybe I should say, the next time I lose my wedding band again — I’d be frantic, not because my wedding ring is worth much monetarily, but in terms of, uh, family harmony and personal safety, it’s priceless.

And yet here I am stuck with two wedding bands that don’t belong to me, and apparently don’t mean much to their owners.

Oh, well.

The ad has a few more days to run.

After that, I guess, it’s off to the pawn shop. Maybe with the proceeds, I can get my wife something nice.