Mourning: A Plastic Mishap

For the devoted, or perhaps the bored and restless with the wonderful luxury of excessive leisure time, this photograph may be familiar from here, an excerpt of life captured nearly a year ago. Aside from my typically omnipresent bodacious bangles, beautifully displayed, this image encapsulates, and for now, enshrines, in memorium, my large plastic ivory cube ring. Deviating from my traditional search for costume jewelry from another era, I found this piece at a popular contemporary boutique in Ithaca, near the campus. Ivory is an elegant and versatile color, I admired the geometry of the piece, and it evoked some of my favorite accessory aesthetics, bakelite, the first manufactured plastic ever. Since discovering this inexpensive ring nearly five years ago, I have worn it almost everyday. 

On a related tangent, my relationship with the inefficient and lazy dryer in the washing unit on my apartment floor is tumultuous and passionate, one of hate and disappointment and frustration. For one quarter, I receive seven minutes only of lukewarm tumble drying, and, quite frequently, my quarter is greedily devoured without the fickle machine fulfilling its end of this mostly unavoidable transaction. Sometimes, if one pleads sufficiently well, by banging at the top of the creature with a clenched and angry fist, the quarter will dislodge from this cruel trap, potentially a clever ruse by my conniving landlord, and fall into place.

Earlier today, amidst tackling months of laundry, as my arsenal of quarters had risen in ranks and was prepared to be depleted, I deposited my precious coin into the mouth and it was swallowed, without the satisfying cling into its rightful spot. Eyes narrowing, my hands splayed across the beast, burst forth like a hot spew of hot neurotransmitters. I feel a quick pinch and hear a snap, and then look to the ground: my ring is in three pieces, broken. I am now doubly defeated. 

It is strange, the attachment and bond we develop for certain inanimate and invaluable material items; at first, I had that phantom limb sensation of soldiers and victims of horrific natural tragedies. Now, I merely feel naked, left exposed and vulnerable. Thankfully, the filmmaker is expertly adroit with superglue, and intends to, at the least, make a valiant attempt for a repair. If he fails, well, perhaps this is some symbol of greater cosmic significance that I am due for some change in my life.