My left hand and I have had an extraordinary relationship over the years. When I would hang out with my grandmother, she'd let me play in her jewelry box and I'd adorn every finger of my left hand with one of many rings - some real, some costume. I felt like a little Lana Turner with my bejeweled and elegant hands, but instead of holding a glass of scotch or a champagne flute, my little hands would artfully grip a plastic tumbler filled to the brim with apple juice. As I grew older, so did my left hand and her maturing taste left no room for mere baubles. This sartorial shift coincided with some major events in my life - teenage birthdays, high school graduations, etc. - and gifts of gold and pearls and diamonds from Mom and Dad, and Grandma.
In college, though, silver had become all of the rage, along with grungy flannel, jeans with intentional holes at the knees, and a hippy-chic that put a permanent stench of musk oil and hemp in the halls of the campus dorms. Caravans of merchants descended on my college campus, filling the campus center with their cheap treasures, and soon, my left hand was overloaded with silver trinkets, channeling a latter day Stevie Nicks and her gypsy toughness.
In the years after school, my left hand told the stories of my life, from first big job (gold signet class ring), to evenings out with my girlfriends (silver black onyx ring), to symphony orchestra concerts (gold dome ring), and first dates (chunky polished silver band paired with silver garnet ring). I changed my rings as I changed my moods, until, one day 10 years ago, I was given a ring unlike any other I'd had before. By now, you must have guessed that this was an engagement ring, and this week I and the man who gave me that ring will celebrate that day, and all of the days since. If the stories of my life can be told by my left hand, then the story is a love story. I may not be able to dance in a onesie, a la Beyonce, but I'm so glad he put a ring on it:) I'm just saying!