It was a gorgeous Tuesday, and we were sitting at the Four Seasons for a Tod’s luncheon, enjoying hors d’oeuvres and light conversation. I turned to introduce myself to my seat companion, as any civilized person does. Except I never made it to her face, let alone her outfit. A gigantic emerald sitting on her left hand nearly cost me my eyesight. Were we talking about fashion or politics? No clue. All I could see and think about was this enormous green rock sitting on the tiniest hand I had ever seen. And, if you’re interested, her name was Dara.
I made it past the emerald and discovered there was an actual person attached to it. Yes, I am not that shallow. She was the jewelry designer behind that outrageous emerald. Eventually, Dara became one of my closest friends. But between two errands, I often catch myself drifting into a kind of reverie. The ring is mine. Fourteen carats of emerald sitting unapologetically on my pinky. Wherever I go, the ring goes, hand in hand. Literally. Alas, the ring never makes it beyond the figment of my imagination. And every time I see it on her finger, I think the same thing: I want that ring. In fact, I need it.
There are not a hundred solutions. I could simply buy it and call it a day. Financial considerations aside, my friend is a phone call away, and we already have a lifetime planned together. The ring and I.
Keeping me apart from my forbidden fourteen carat affair is my own outdated idea of jewelry. I am perfectly comfortable buying myself clothes, shoes, bags and absolutely everything else my closet could probably not survive without. But with jewelry, I hesitate. I have always thought of jewelry as something given to me. Refrain from calling me entitled. Preferably by my husband. Is my thinking old fashioned? Probably. The feminist movement would disown me on the spot. Also, we are in 2026. Wake up.
The more I kept thinking about it, the more my own logic started to crumble. My husband should not buy me this ring. I should. This is not husband gift material. This is my Employee of the Month celebration. I want that emerald in my face at school pickup, getting stuck in my grocery bags at Publix, not at the annual gala I am never invited to. Also, if he wishes to wire me the funds for it, I won’t say no.
The ring is bold. It’s a statement. Wearing it feels strangely defiant, especially in front of my husband. Yet underneath all that bravado, its grandeur makes me shy. Could it be guilt? No. I am not sneaking home at four in the morning with my shoes in my hand. So why does showing up with a huge green rock on my pinky feel suspiciously close to committing jewelry infidelity? Am I cheating on the jewelry he gave me? With an emerald. On my pinky. Am I going too far?
A wise person once said, “I can buy myself flowers.” That wise person was Miley Cyrus. Well, yes, Miley, I know. I can write my name in the sand too. But flowers are easy. And flowers die. An emerald I intend to wear for the rest of my life is another matter entirely. Above all, I don’t want flowers. Still, the girl had a point. If I can buy myself flowers, clothes, shoes, bags and everything else, why does buying myself jewelry still feel like breaking some kind of unwritten rule?
When it comes to getting dressed, clothes require a certain level of planning. Jewelry requires a hand. I have a hand. What I don’t have is time and, recently, the nerves. The emerald needs approximately three seconds to land on my finger. A decent outfit today requires considerably more, and I am already fighting against the clock. Class starts at 8 a.m. Why so early, I will never understand. She is two years old. And then it all made sense. What I love most about jewelry is that I can actually see it. No mirror required. No searching for my reflection. I can be running late, carrying bags, writing this article, and all I have to do is look down and think, damn, I look good. The same goes for bracelets and watches.
But before Miley gets too excited and Simone de Beauvoir claims me as one of her own, make no mistake. Being my own jeweler does not, under any circumstances, mean that I want my husband to stop buying jewelry for me. Au contraire. The jewelry he gives me carries something very different: a gesture of love that, preferably, comes in a very nice box. My emerald pinky ring serves a purpose entirely of its own. My vanity. I have room for both in my jewelry box. Fortunately.
Perhaps my analysis couldn’t have been more off base. What if buying myself jewelry is not cheating at all? Could I have been unnecessarily faithful to a rule I was always free to break? My husband certainly did not care. Miley definitely did not. Dara, judging by the emeralds that started this entire identity crisis, did not either. Which ultimately leaves only one person standing between me and that ring. Me.
Will I buy the ring? Maybe one day. I am still negotiating with myself. But I know exactly what will happen the next time I see Dara. I will look at her emerald. I will look at my lonely, bare pinky. How much longer do I intend to remain faithful?
Bisous,
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