I was standing in the subway and just as the doors were closing, a woman leaped towards the entrance. As a general rule, I don’t help people out when they are trying to catch a train. The MTA advises against that. So I just stood there, watching. The woman shoved her left hand in between the two sliding doors and I noticed a huge rock dangling from her ring finger. I could see the muscles in her hand straining, not only to keep the door from crushing her dainty little wrist, but to hold up the weight of the giant diamond, too. I held up my left hand to admire the delicate infinity symbol ring on my finger. There are tiny diamonds inside the symbol that were probably placed in there by a tiny child with tiny hands who found the jewels in a tiny river near his tiny house in his tiny village. My ring was not some slapdash, poke-your-eye-out ornament manufactured in a warehouse for sale at a department store with a lame name like Jared or Zales. My ring is precious and meaningful.
Big diamond rings are just gushing with pretension, anyway. They are usually a sign that the couple will one day be foreclosing on a house because her husband doesn’t know how to manage money properly and she is too demanding.
The subway door re-opened and the woman stepped inside. She shook out her hand, “Ouch,” she said.
Ouch indeed, I thought. I wondered how hard it was for the woman to carry such an unwieldy burden on her finger every day. I have enough trouble remembering to put mine on in the morning, but she must have an awful time with that thing.
A ring that big takes all the fun out of trying on clothes. Just one snag on a fine cashmere sweater and the Barnie’s sales woman will force her to buy the damaged merchandise. Didn’t anticipate that $200 in the wedding budget, huh?
And how’s she supposed to manage day-to-day functions? One simple text message to notify her fiance that she will be late for dinner must take 30 minutes to complete because the ring is slipping around, knocking various keys on her iPhone. Ihkll aaab gh!mme jklaate*
How does she even manage such seemingly simple tasks as going to the bathroom? Do you have to sterilize it once you get out of the stall?
Call me crazy, but all that seems like way too much trouble.
And then, after the ring spends 1-3 years causing so much destruction, it gets locked up in a safety deposit box like some convict that’s been sentenced to death row.
The whole obsession with big diamond rings just doesn’t make sense to me.