I’m not a big jewelry gal. Never have been. In fact, the only thing I consistently wear, is my thin gold wedding band. I never take that off.
Except when I’m so pregnancy-swollen that rings no longer fit on my fat fingers, and I can no longer stuff my Cinderella stepsister type feet into a pair of slippers. Glass or fuzzy.
On those occasions I sport a larger wedding band that I found in my mother’s jewelry box after she died. I have no idea who it belonged to. I know for certain it isn’t my dad’s band. My mom was a well known pack rat. I also found, in the same jewelry box, an envelope with some gold teeth fillings. One even had the tooth still attached. Shudder. So, there’s really no telling….
I felt it important to wear the unknown band because I certainly wouldn’t have wanted some hapless desperate fellow to think I wasn’t married. And attempt to hit on me. In my huge and swollen state.
My lack of jewelry wearing drives my daughters crazy. They sift through my bright costume jewels (most of which belonged to my mother) and can’t understand why I don’t bejewel myself in them everyday.
Mostly, I tell them, it is because I don’t want to give Jensen a fulcrum to use when he wrestles me to the ground. Hoop earrings have never been an option here in the House of Fiddle.
My mother wore oversized jewelry with a flourish. She would hang a large bear claw turquoise necklace around her neck for everyday fashion. As in, a trip to Safeway. She was well known for her jewelry. It was larger than life. Just like she was. And yet, she never looked garish. She could pull it off. She had the height and the right bone structure. And southern charm.
Not me. I was what my grandmother called “pee-kid.” I’d call it petite, but, you won’t find me shopping in the “petite” section of Wal Mart. I don’t feel petite. Short, yes. Petite, no.
On Mother’s Day this year, my girls took matters into their own hands. On the Saturday prior, Fiddledaddy called me on the cell. I was selling some used curriculum at the aptly titled Used Curriculum Sale. Mostly, I was just enjoying the sitting, not having to wipe anyone’s bottom, and having fun adult-like conversation with other homeschooling moms.
The making of a little mad money was just gravy.
So, Fiddledaddy began the conversation with, “What size ring do you wear?”
Me: “I have no idea. Why?”
FD: “We’re in the car, on the way to the store. The girls want to get you a little something.”
Me: “Well, the only thing they can afford would be adjustable, so the ring size shouldn’t matter.”
FD: “Just guess.”
Me: “Okay. I think a size 7. But, that could be my underwear size, so I’m really not sure.”
When I arrived home, they couldn’t wait another minute, and my girls presented me with a most grand present. Two of them, actually. TWO VERY LARGE FAUX-DIAMOND ENCRUSTED 240 CARAT RINGS.
And they fit.
I have to wear them one at a time, though, because otherwise, I walk a bit lopsided. The ring wearing arm is considerably longer than the other, as my knuckle drags along the ground.
Also, I have to remember not to leave them lying around, as Jensen picked one up and lobbed it across the room. Striking me in the head. Nearly rendering me senseless.
Really, they are lovely to behold. And if you look closely at my craggy wrinkly dishpan hands, it’s awfully hard to understand why I’m not a much sought after hand model.
My girls encourage me to wear them EVERYWHERE. Indeed,I do. My daughters tell me that they make me look majestic.
And who am I to argue with logic like that.
And a gift like this, is practical too. Should anyone attempt to mug me, the poor fool will have a 240 carat diamond encrusted welt in the middle of his forehead for identification purposes.
Never again will I feel “underdressed” at Wal Mart.