Statement.
After killer shoes, I love me some accessories. Specifically, bling bling rings. Not only do they spice up outfits and often become a conversation piece, but they double as a self defense device. Quite practical if ya ask me.
While in NYC over Halloween, I picked up a fabulous gigantic gold & white one in the shape of a bloomed flower for a whopping $15 — a tribute to the Sex & The City bus tour my friends & I were about to embark on. Later that evening I removed it while washing my hands in a gay bar’s unisex bathroom, and apparently left it on the sink. Ugh.
If that wasn’t tragic enough, once again, I managed to accidentally donate another beautiful piece of handware the night Mr. Big took me to Morton’s for our epic makeup session. It was sterling silver with an oval turquoise stone. Same felony — took it off while scrubbing my paws and forgot to return the jewelry back to its rightful owner.
Over this past weekend, with virtually no options left to choose from, I plucked out an oldie but a goodie. Big had gifted me a classic Tiffany’s number that I had my heart set on many years ago. One in every five American females own one. During this past year of separation, I hadn’t touched it, much less looked at it. But with a few tarnish-removing rag wipes, the precious metal was good as new and I wore her on my right hand.
Out of principle, on a daily basis, I have never sported any materials on my left hand ring finger. I personally believe that it should only be occupied by symbols of marital commitment. In fact, many languages reflect an ancient belief that it is a magical finger. And some cultures even avoid classifying it altogether and call it nameless. Traditionally the wedding ring is worn on the left ring finger because its vein is believed to be directly connected to the heart. So perhaps I’ve metaphorically been keeping artery access free and clear to my love vessel…
Just like protecting finger number four from objects, throughout my twenties, I also kept my mind free of any and all things wedding. I suppose part of it was subconscious — an inability to visualize Big stepping up to the proverbial plate. In all my years of being a bridesmaid and intimately close to the D-day details, I never allowed myself to fantasize in any way, shape or form.
That is probably the key difference between myself and the 27 Dresses movie character — I focused only on the Bride and confined my own Cinderella story to a cake topper. However, at the rate Big & I are going, I’m beginning to think my never-ending time line will be closer than originally anticipated. And when it is eventually my turn to pop the left hand cherry, part of my semi-permanent statement ring vow will be to never leave home without an economy size bottle of Purell.
