So, I had to take my fabulous new ring to the jeweler to be resized because if I try to wear a seven on either of my ring fingers it will inevitably fall off.
When I have jewelry sizing needs (and let’s face it, since most of my rings need to be a 5.5 or 6 and all the ones I like are for some reason a 7, this happens a lot) I like to go to my parents’ jeweler. There are a few reasons why I do this.
1) I like to support small business as often as I can. Unless small business is trying to ass rape me. In which case I choose the cheapest place with the most decent product. In this case, the small business support really works for me.
2) This particular jeweler actually constructed my mom’s wedding ring, using her engagement ring and another ring. (My dad had the new ring made because her original wedding ring was stolen.) It is fabulous. I’ve never seen another like it and I’ve been in love with it since I was little.
3) I usually get a discount because my parents have been going to this guy for, like, 20 years.
I took my shiny new ring in and he determined that he would be able to resize it without taking the stone out (awesome) and it would be pretty inexpensive. Yay!
He started talking about how he remembered my name and the association with my parents, but couldn’t remember what I looked like the last time I came in. I told him it was because the last time I was in (also to get a ring resized) I was about 50 pounds heavier and had longer, very straight hair.
This was about the point at which I remembered the dude is kind of a creeper and I should have just not said anything.
But it was already too late.
I was running errands in my comfy “dyke jeans,” a plain t-shirt, and some vans. He checked me out and told me I needed to wear some tighter-fitting jeans to show off the weight I lost (I’m sorry I don’t feel like a denim rape session every single day, awkward jeweler).
Then, he almost died.
Because I almost killed him with my bare hands.
Instead of just stopping there and not continuing his downward spiral of idiocy, awkward jeweler said this: “You could be one of those girls… Who models… You know, for like bigger girls… You know what I mean? …Like, plus size models or something… ‘Cause your face is pretty enough to be a model…”
Then an anvil fell on his head, just like Wiley Coyote in the Road Runner cartoons.
Okay, maybe I just imagined that last part.
But seriously, he is dead to me.
Until later when I go pick up my ring.
For that, I might need to put on some baggy, raggy, dirty sweatpants.