My Precious

I remember feeling privilege and shame when I was complimented on the first ring. I was 16 and I thought my life was worth ending. But, I remember sitting in a salon, feeling unjustified because I had this expensive gift of filial love on my finger. I cried later because 3rd world country children smiled as I hoarded prescription drugs while wearing expensive antiques on my hand. In 19 years, I've only lost sight of it twice. And even then, it was recovered within 24 hours. The second ring, purchased to commemorate failure or survival, I forget which, gets the most compliments. I'm ashamed to remember that it was on sale when I bought it with my discount. $11.98 was all my life was worth in 1994, apparently. The third ring is always changing. The "new" ring has been here throughout the whole Portland life, if not before. 6 years and counting?
I am never awake long without my rings. They are reminders. Of me, my life, where I have been. They are constants. Mostly. The third one needs to be changed soon. Because I am always evolving. I've been in a slump. I've actually been longing for depressive me. But only because that me was always ENGAGED in the world. I'm longing for that feeling.
WOW! suddenly this post has taken on this totally unplanned Freudian thing about rings and engagement. I'm going to let it stand, because maybe it is what I mean. And I've had some wine. Or maybe I just meant I want the third ring not to turn my finger green anymore...