Ring It Up

As a child I thought that wearing a ring on my left ring finger would lead to my never getting married. I don't know where I picked that up, but it stuck in my mind so much that rings weren't even allowed to be worn on that hand. Not that I wore many rings to begin with. They, like earrings, were the types of pieces I always lost.

When my mother comes to visit, she often brings me little gifts. Usually these gifts are rolls of quarters for my laundry, but recently she's given me two rings. The first she presented along with two teal plastic bangles. All had been purchased at the Marc by Marc Jacobs store. In the section near the front that catches your eye as you wait in line. I both hate and love that section of stores.

After a year of weight loss, the finger that the ring fit best was the one I previously considered off limits. But if there's anything the last year has taught me, it's that superstition is bullshit. Along with luck and fate. I've become all about taking things into my own hands because, otherwise, nothing will ever be accomplished.

Okay, maybe this revelation has only taken place in the past month or two, but almost a year of project work and temping and waiting for something to happen will do that to you.

Also the ring in no way resembles an engagement ring, so the six year old Samantha that sometimes pipes up was satisfied.


(Pardon my shitty cellphone pictures. My real camera's batteries are dead, and there are more important things to worry about at the moment. Like making sure that there is always Cherry Limeade in my refrigerator.)

Hidden within my most recent batch of quarters, which she had placed in a small purse covered in shells, there lay a new ring. A cocktail one. Large and sparkly. I contemplated it for a good four days before putting it on last night for an evening stroll through my little corner of gentrified Brooklyn.


It weighted my left hand slightly. As my arm swung at my side, there was a heaviness that I liked. Or maybe it was how the weight contrasted with the relative lightness of my right hand that I liked. I flexed my fingers repeatedly. I shook my hand to insure that it would stay put.

My original hesitance lay in its resemblance to a stone. The six year old flared up and shouted as loud as she could that I would be single forever. Oh, the horror.

I calmly explained to her that she was being ridiculous.

And then I decided what I would wear the ring with today.