I took my engagement ring to a jeweler today to sell it. It’s an absolutely gorgeous ring. Two and a half years ago, I got engaged to an unemployed loser. One of those guys who says he’s an artist (a purported musician and writer), and it’s beneath him to actually work to make a living. So he lives a parasitic lifestyle with any number of hosts–male and female alike. If a person had anything to offer that didn’t come with a price tag, he took it.
Sadly, I didn’t come with a price tag. It won’t happen again, but it happened with Mack. You know the story. There are several terrific blogs on the subject–narcissistic, abusive, alcoholic, losers, who are practiced at the arts of deception and manipulation. Women fall for that shit. Smart women.
So I fall for the “writer/musician.” And I just have to say–out loud on this momentous day–the dude had a huge head. I’m not talking metaphorically. He literally had a huge head. I’m 5’6″. He claimed to be 5’6″, but the top of his shoulder was a good four inches lower than mine. I’d look at us in the mirror trying to figure out how he could be nearly as tall as me when it felt like he was a 5’2″ when I draped my arm across his shoulders. And then it hit me–the son of a bitch had an enormous head. I think he was part dwarf. There’s nothing worse than an asshole dwarf. But I fell for him anyway, which is why you should find my judgment, when it comes to men, my men, highly questionable. I’m pretty good at seeing the asshole in my friends’ men, but with mine–fucking blinders.
Which is why I won’t pick the next one. I’m at last willing to admit this shortcoming. So unless someone picks him for me–I’m done.
Okay, so I got engaged to an unemployed loser, but if I was getting married, I wanted a real ring. A pretty ring. I’m not the kind to spend money on expensive jewelry, but I wanted a real engagement ring. It was gorgeous. Radiant cut, a bit over 2 carats with the setting and center diamond combined. Halo mounting. D/sI1. Not perfect, but gorgeous. It was the prettiest piece of jewelry I’d ever owned.
But when you finally come to your senses and extricate yourself from the ridiculous farce, what do you do with the ring? I asked that very question 18 months ago, and still it sat in its case stuffed in the back of a bathroom drawer.
You can’t wear it. Even if seeing it on your finger doesn’t upset you, it still feels like you’re holding on to something you swear you let go of long ago. And even though you have let go, and you just like the sparkle, you don’t wear it.
Wearing it on my right hand felt farcical. Like my entire relationship with him.
So it sat.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about money. I’m 50. Unmarried. I make a good living, but I’m bad at saving money. I buy stupid things. Like engagement rings to pretend I’m in a meaningful relationship with a narcissistic, asshole, “writer/musician” dwarf. I’ve got a new financial planner. One who actually makes me look at my income, my spending habits, and plan. Rather than the kind I used to have, who parked my money and never looked at it again. But he did take his management fee, even though all he managed to do was send me a box of chocolate covered toffee at Christmas. Admittedly, it was damn good toffee.
So my new financial planner says, “We’ve got some catching up to do.” Way to strike fear into the heart of this girl. I’m taking heed. Zappos is going to revoke my VIP status. Amazon shareholders may take a hit. I’m like Greece. Austerity is the new rule.
And that sparkly hunk of rock is sitting in its box. Useless.
Have you heard the price of diamonds has skyrocketed? I was listening to NPR on the way to the jeweler, and the financial news said the price of diamonds is expected to outpace gold. I laughed as I pulled into the jeweler’s parking lot. We’d haggled a bit on the phone before I’d arrived, but I knew she was low. I knew when she saw the ring, it would exceed her expectations. This wasn’t sentiment talking. I’m in finance mode; not but-it-was-my-engagement-ring-with-a-giant-head mode.
I was right. She was wowed. The price crept up and up, and still I shook my head, no. The number edged up a bit farther. She asked me to leave it so she could get an agreement from the owner tomorrow. I left it. I walked out the door and left that fucking ring behind. I’ll never see it again.
I loved that ring. But I hated that guy. And the ring means cold hard cash for my investment portfolio.
So I left it on the counter and walked out of the store.
But what in the hell was that tightness in my chest?
Just keep walking and don’t look back.
Thank you, Peter Tosh.