My left hand is my buddy. I may not write with it, but it’s always been the stronger one. The brute that forces stuck taps off the lines at work. It’s marked with angel’s kisses, the roadmap to left and right I used as a child in my ballet classes. It wears the bracelets that mark me as a traveller.
It has two giant, aching flaps of skin on the tip of the thumb, a casualty of food and cocktails.
And today, it’s not naked anymore.
I’m engaged. For real and for true. With a ring and all. On last Saturday we walked along the glittering streets of Hatton Garden, the jewellery district of London.
The stores were all too big, too shiny, with too big of a price tag on their rings. I never wanted a brand-new engagement ring. Antiques suit me more. They’re more frugal (usually). They are high quality. They’re more likely to be ethical, and if not, then the reuse of the jewellery passes the buck to someone further up the line.
My ring is Art Deco, with older cuts on the seven small diamonds. It was made in the 1920s or 1930s, which is a time period with which I connect greatly. It’s unique, and it reflects the fact that my fiance made me a ring from a flower for his proposal (which he eventually scrapped, and went for a single aspen leaf instead). We chose the ring together in a family-owned and operated antique shop, and paid less than our individual monthly rent. It’s a symbol of our commitment, but also of the pragmatism that characterises our relationship.
Now, my left hand will never be naked again. I’ve been wearing the ring since yesterday at sunset, when Russ got home. I can’t stop looking at it, twirling it in the sunlight to watch is shine. I love the design even more now. It feels just right on my hand. So happy for this new, if short, period of our lives together. So happy to be a fiancee.