The other day I opened my jewelry box. It’s a neglected mahogany box that doesn’t serve a lot of purpose in my life; I rarely notice its existence. Basically it’s there for Larry to dust and take up half of the dresser top, but every now and then I open its lid and marvel over the forgotten treasures and spend a few minutes separating the chains that like to merge and tangle, a phenomena I can’t explain any more than where the socks go in the dryer.
I have a lot of jewelry. There are bangles, cuffs, rings, amber, earrings galore, odds and ends and then my homemade, one of a kind stuff. Someone will have a lot of fun when I die, discovering treasure after sparkling treasure. It’ll be my hubby’s next wife or Shane’s wife Ashley, depending on the chronology of hubby’s and my demise. But whoever gets to open the treasure chest will be rather delighted that I hoarded bling.
The thing is, I might have it, even go so much as to say I covet it all, but I don’t wear any of it. I’m not sure why, but I will put a piece on, look in the mirror and immediately take it off. It seems out of place on me, I’m more of a plain Jane than a fashionista so I feel more comfortable blending into the background. It’s weird and defies explanation. All the beautiful jewelry I made with artisan beads, expensive, exquisite beads from all over the world that I lusted after and drooled over while in my hand, never made it around my neck.
I have a collection of rings that I’ve picked up over time. Inherited, Christmas gifts, previous beaus, purchases I had to have because I thought I couldn’t breathe without, acquired and then forgotten once the cover is lowered on my fancy Bombay company jewelry box, the pieces then lie in wait in the darkness for the lid to open, to be picked up and caressed. I’ve mentioned before how my mom used to call me “crow” and it’s a deserved term of endearment. I like sparkly things and what better sparkle than gold, sterling silver and semi-precious stones, faceted and beaming in the light.
If I go out for an evening I might slip on my collection of bangles, all metals grouped together complimenting one other. Rose gold, yellow gold and silver, twisted ropes and cleverly crafted designs. I like the clang they make, like a halyard against a mast drumming out a metallic tune in an afternoon breeze.
Perhaps I should have it all melted down for a custom made piece, or sell it to add to the retirement fund, a worthwhile acquisition, bring hubby home from the wilds of Alberta permanently. Now I don’t want to give the impression there’s that much to sell, but I have an average share of adornments that could be better served than always waiting for me to show it some love.
The point I was trying to make when I started this blog, was that I picked up a gold pinky ring that I almost forgot I owned and tried it on. It didn’t fit. Gold doesn’t shrink so the problem had to be with me. I examined my finger closely and noticed the knuckle was looking rather large. I had to force the ring on and it hurt a bit. I stared at my hand noticing other a few other areas a bit exaggerated and slightly twisted. How did this happen without being noticed? I like to pride myself on my observation skills but this fact alluded me. I squeezed the bulging knuckle and it was sore, sore to the touch but not noticeable when moving it. I was dismayed at the revelation but then I realized the silver lining, at least the ring would no longer fall off as it did before, now braced in place by the calcified ligaments. Hmmm…...
My legs started hurting a week later. I was standing at the shop working on a kit when a burning sensation began in the back of my knees and spread quickly down my shins to my ankles, burning like liquid lava pulled by gravity. It came on faster than a freight train. Not sure what the heck happened, I sat in a chair for a few minutes waiting for it to subside. But, it didn’t. I stated searching for an explanation. I’d bought a cheap pair of Dawgs at the drugstore (a cheaper version of Crocs) thinking they would be handy for the boat and walks on the beach when we anchor offshore. I’m not sure why I wore them to work, laziness I guess but they did match my outfit. They had as much support as an abusive husband, like cheap flip-flops that I haven’t worn since I was ten. I’ve never been great with footwear that is lower in the heel than the ball of the foot. I think years of stuffing my feet into high heels wreaked havoc on my calf muscles. I usually wear a slight wedge to elevate my heel for comfort.
Anyway, that was the only change so I assumed it was the shoes and suffered the pain until I could get home and kick them off. Once it started there was no relief. The discomfort persisted for days no matter what footwear I donned. And in bed at night my legs kept me awake from the aching and burning. When I rose in the morning and put my feet on the floor they felt normal for a few minutes but relief was short lived and the discomfort began again. Only a few short weeks ago I was bragging and knocking wood how I didn’t have any aches and pains and within a matter of days I was becoming an old woman! For goodness sake, I’m only 58, I thought there was plenty of time left to morph into the crippled older woman but apparently not. My arthritic finger is pointing the way to the inevitable. My dad had arthritis in his fingers, I guess I’m a chip off the old block in more ways than the humour, skinny legs and flat head.
I spent a couple of hours looking up my symptoms on Google, trying to avoid a real medical appointment but they didn’t fit any particular illness. So I am hoping I stressed them with terrible shoes, you can’t expect much support from a $18.99 piece of plastic spit out of a mold.
Yesterday my legs stopped hurting and coincidentally I bought a pair of Crocs at Costco with an elevated heel that felt like putting my feet into a gauntlet of massaging hands. I wore them all day and felt no pains or aches and got up this morning almost forgetting the distress of the past week. I’m blaming the incident on bad shoes, although I think my age had something to do with it as I’ve worn bad shoes before without a bad experience…so I'll knock on wood until it no longer works...
I have a lot of jewelry. There are bangles, cuffs, rings, amber, earrings galore, odds and ends and then my homemade, one of a kind stuff. Someone will have a lot of fun when I die, discovering treasure after sparkling treasure. It’ll be my hubby’s next wife or Shane’s wife Ashley, depending on the chronology of hubby’s and my demise. But whoever gets to open the treasure chest will be rather delighted that I hoarded bling.
The thing is, I might have it, even go so much as to say I covet it all, but I don’t wear any of it. I’m not sure why, but I will put a piece on, look in the mirror and immediately take it off. It seems out of place on me, I’m more of a plain Jane than a fashionista so I feel more comfortable blending into the background. It’s weird and defies explanation. All the beautiful jewelry I made with artisan beads, expensive, exquisite beads from all over the world that I lusted after and drooled over while in my hand, never made it around my neck.
I have a collection of rings that I’ve picked up over time. Inherited, Christmas gifts, previous beaus, purchases I had to have because I thought I couldn’t breathe without, acquired and then forgotten once the cover is lowered on my fancy Bombay company jewelry box, the pieces then lie in wait in the darkness for the lid to open, to be picked up and caressed. I’ve mentioned before how my mom used to call me “crow” and it’s a deserved term of endearment. I like sparkly things and what better sparkle than gold, sterling silver and semi-precious stones, faceted and beaming in the light.
If I go out for an evening I might slip on my collection of bangles, all metals grouped together complimenting one other. Rose gold, yellow gold and silver, twisted ropes and cleverly crafted designs. I like the clang they make, like a halyard against a mast drumming out a metallic tune in an afternoon breeze.
Perhaps I should have it all melted down for a custom made piece, or sell it to add to the retirement fund, a worthwhile acquisition, bring hubby home from the wilds of Alberta permanently. Now I don’t want to give the impression there’s that much to sell, but I have an average share of adornments that could be better served than always waiting for me to show it some love.
The point I was trying to make when I started this blog, was that I picked up a gold pinky ring that I almost forgot I owned and tried it on. It didn’t fit. Gold doesn’t shrink so the problem had to be with me. I examined my finger closely and noticed the knuckle was looking rather large. I had to force the ring on and it hurt a bit. I stared at my hand noticing other a few other areas a bit exaggerated and slightly twisted. How did this happen without being noticed? I like to pride myself on my observation skills but this fact alluded me. I squeezed the bulging knuckle and it was sore, sore to the touch but not noticeable when moving it. I was dismayed at the revelation but then I realized the silver lining, at least the ring would no longer fall off as it did before, now braced in place by the calcified ligaments. Hmmm…...
My legs started hurting a week later. I was standing at the shop working on a kit when a burning sensation began in the back of my knees and spread quickly down my shins to my ankles, burning like liquid lava pulled by gravity. It came on faster than a freight train. Not sure what the heck happened, I sat in a chair for a few minutes waiting for it to subside. But, it didn’t. I stated searching for an explanation. I’d bought a cheap pair of Dawgs at the drugstore (a cheaper version of Crocs) thinking they would be handy for the boat and walks on the beach when we anchor offshore. I’m not sure why I wore them to work, laziness I guess but they did match my outfit. They had as much support as an abusive husband, like cheap flip-flops that I haven’t worn since I was ten. I’ve never been great with footwear that is lower in the heel than the ball of the foot. I think years of stuffing my feet into high heels wreaked havoc on my calf muscles. I usually wear a slight wedge to elevate my heel for comfort.
Anyway, that was the only change so I assumed it was the shoes and suffered the pain until I could get home and kick them off. Once it started there was no relief. The discomfort persisted for days no matter what footwear I donned. And in bed at night my legs kept me awake from the aching and burning. When I rose in the morning and put my feet on the floor they felt normal for a few minutes but relief was short lived and the discomfort began again. Only a few short weeks ago I was bragging and knocking wood how I didn’t have any aches and pains and within a matter of days I was becoming an old woman! For goodness sake, I’m only 58, I thought there was plenty of time left to morph into the crippled older woman but apparently not. My arthritic finger is pointing the way to the inevitable. My dad had arthritis in his fingers, I guess I’m a chip off the old block in more ways than the humour, skinny legs and flat head.
I spent a couple of hours looking up my symptoms on Google, trying to avoid a real medical appointment but they didn’t fit any particular illness. So I am hoping I stressed them with terrible shoes, you can’t expect much support from a $18.99 piece of plastic spit out of a mold.
Yesterday my legs stopped hurting and coincidentally I bought a pair of Crocs at Costco with an elevated heel that felt like putting my feet into a gauntlet of massaging hands. I wore them all day and felt no pains or aches and got up this morning almost forgetting the distress of the past week. I’m blaming the incident on bad shoes, although I think my age had something to do with it as I’ve worn bad shoes before without a bad experience…so I'll knock on wood until it no longer works...
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