Blogging Blues

I've been blogging inside my mind all week, but nothing has made it yet to the screen. In my head, I'm writing all sorts of delightful essays on how great life is going, how I feel like I've turned a corner in my life, how I'm enjoying dating casually again and feeling relaxed about whether or not I need a boyfriend in my life. Cohesive essays form in my brain. Images ripe with impact dance. A catalog of frogs, kayaks on ocean waves, Obama acceptance speech moment (Yes, We Can!) and so I THOUGHT today would be a great day to blog. I THOUGHT I would be able to stop writing whiny essays on grief and pain and focus instead on fun things, like making out with an adorable 33 year-old border patrol while in a northern city near the Canadian border.

Alas, grief comes crashing back. Or perhaps I should saying rolling. Rolling on the back of a diamond speckled white gold wedding ring.

Lately, my wedding gifts have been offing themselves. Crystal wine glasses have knocked themselves off counters, bowls have shattered in the dishwasher, my flannel pj's from my ex have been taunting my hound so that he has finally ripped a hole in them, and even my favorite pair of sweatpants, my ex's pair that was too small, has been volunteering for the position of wine-stain receptacle. It's a conspiracy. But one that I hope leads to healing soon. 

I feel like once everything from my marriage is destroyed, new growth begins.

In this spirit, I decided that I must sell my engagement ring. Today. I have tried before with little luck. Two months ago I brought engagement ring and wedding band (purchased for $3800 in 2002) to Pawn America. Under the weight of depressed fluorescent light bulbs, in the stale air of smoke and despair, at the counter of dreams forfeited for immediate needs, John told me the pair of items was worth $360 dollars. I pocket the rings and left, sure I could find a better price.

One month ago I posted my rings on craigslist. I took pictures. I wrote a description. I clicked on the link. The responses I got were immediate (which was promising), unintelligible (which was confusing), and overly enthusiastic (which was immediately suspicious). I pictured myself showing up in a parking lot somewhere and being dragged by my ponytail into a trunk. I did not respond to any of the inquirers. 

Today I went to Be-Iced, a store I had heard about on television that promised "three times more!" for my jewelry than a pawn shop. I contented myself with the idea that I might actually get six hundred bucks, I'd settle for five, and secretly, I was hoping for seven. I walked into the carpeted store, past an older woman with an oxygen tank beside her who was looking at diamonds stud earrings perched in gold settings and placed my two rings in a tray lined with black velvet.

"Now, I just have to warn you, it won't be worth nearly what you bought it for" said an older saleswoman with highlighted hair over her glasses.

"That's ok. I've already been to the pawn shop--I've already been shocked."

Turns out, Be-Iced offered less. A grand total for $339. When I said the pawn shop offered more, the saleswoman told me it was probably because they didn't have equipment good enough to "really scrutinize" the jewelry and "find all the flaws." She went on to say "It's sad, isn't it?"

I pocketed the rings again and walked out.

Here's what is sad about the situation. Here's what caused me to feel like cold water was running over me, like a warm flush was creeping to my cheeks, like my arms were being pushed into the ground. Here's what caused my eyes to blur when I looked at the numbers on the page she held in front of me next to that black-velvet-lined box: the ring was my marriage, it was my innocence, it was my twenty year-old heart bleeding away, it was my belief in God, belief in Santa, belief in fairy tale endings and white knights and men I could trust. That ring was a promise I made, a promise I failed to keep; it was failure. My biggest failure.

And a woman was standing there telling me it was worth $339 because of its flaws.

That was a phrase that always was a stab in the chest. Failed Marriage. Those words hold all the weight of the shame that I felt as I left my relationship and chose a better life. 

I left Be-Iced. I ran some errands. I dwelled on my new dilemma. What is the value of $339? Three months of a gym membership? Three months of cell-phone service? Eight four lattes from Starbucks? Such a paltry amount for the weight of my love. "It's sad, isn't it?" Sad isn't the word.

As I drove from store to store returning things, I remembered how just over a year ago I rented a convertible while driving all over Florida. I love convertibles. I've always wanted one. My family has always discouraged me from buying one citing the weather, future children, and impracticality as reasons to steer clear. They are right, of course; a convertible is impractical. But then again, this is my life. I get to do what I want.

And so I settled on the idea of selling the ring to a pawn shop after all and starting a convertible fund. I pictured a mayonnaise jar with convertible pictures taped all over it. Three hundred and sixty dollars wasn't much, but it was a step. A promise. A commitment to myself. A symbol of my fidelity to my own dreams.

Renewed in spirit I drove to a pawn shop near my house, ignored the cars and traffic and sinking feeling I felt as I walked closer to the building, pulled on the door knob and... stopped short. Locked. Closed. 

I was screwed.

Now the weight of my ring continues to haunt me: an item from my marriage I just can't shake. Should I give it to a homeless person? Throw it in a well? Drop it in a mailbox? Go back next week to try again? 

I just don't know. I guess I just have to trust the universe. When, as with my pajamas, my crystal wineglasses, and my sweatpants, it is time for my ring to leave, I'm sure it will find itself a good way to disappear.