Frantically pouring my coffee into my travel mug, clipping on some earrings, searching for my rain boots, I forgot to put on my rings earlier this morning. Everyday, on my left hand, I wore a diamond engagement ring from my great-grandmother, on my middle finger, so as not to confuse, which dates to the early twentieth century and is nearly one hundred years old; on my right hand, ring finger, a large cube shaped ring, which appears to be bakelite, but, indeed, is not. It is a contemporary piece of plastic crap, however, I love the shape and the ivory shade; somehow, it garners more compliments that any legitimately nice pieces of jewelry I own combined. The juxtaposition of materials, age, style, texture, tone, history of these rings fascinates me, and amuses me. I feel naked without them.
(image taken from Shelbelle Tiki Hut)