I look down at the ring finger of my right hand and I get a little panicked, a little queasy. I bought a ring. A version of this ring, actually. Mine’s not quite the same, they’re one-of-a-kind pieces, but you get the idea. A three-carat rustic diamond; I’ve never spent this kind of money on an object that wasn’t attached to a foundation or didn’t have wheels. Okay, Phoren, breathe.
I got caught up in the moment, with the salesperson telling me to wear it out of the store to “try it out” (brilliant move) and my sisters oh-ing and ah-ing, I just plunked down my credit card, as if I do this every week. What happened to sensible Phoren who would walk out of the store and only come back if it called to me? I didn’t give it time to call – shit, I didn’t even give it time to miss me. It’s not remorse I’m feeling, per se, just the feeling of “holy fuck, what did I just do?”
Last night, I smudged it with white sage to remove my inner-voice’s disapproval. I bought nail polish to match it. It looks good on my finger. I like the playful, Gustav Klimt feel of the setting. It fits me…it fits my personality. I just need to get used to it.