I never got the whole “diamonds” concept before. I could never quite grasp what all the hoo-haa was all about. Yesterday, as I was shopping for gifts for my beautiful sisters for their birthday, I knew I would have to buy something big, something special, something that they would have forever to remember the occasion of the thirtieth anniversary of their birth. My usual cop out, a large gift certificate from a bookstore, was not going to cut it for me this year. Sure, they would love it and use it, but it’s a pretty lame gift, and I want this year to be extraordinary.

So yesterday I journeyed to yuppyville to see what I could find for two of the most amazing women that I have had the honor of sharing twenty-seven years of my life with. Having, as usual, no clue as to what to buy them and again, as usual, leaving things until the last possible moment, I was slightly panicked. I eventually heard the call of the high-end jeweler.

When I say I have no experience either buying, wearing, or knowing a thing about sparkly stuff is no understatement. I’m actually a little afraid of it, to be honest. I’m, if you don’t already know, more of a ratty jeans and scuffed up boots kind of girl. Most of my shirts have the name of a band on them and maybe a picture, perhaps a skull with a Mohawk or a skeleton drinking a martini. I might have a ring on my thumb, and I don’t usually wear earrings because for some reason I only have one of each of every pair. I don’t know what happened to the other ones. I usually wish there were a buy two get one free deal on earrings for people like me who inevitably lose one, just one, and give up on the whole thing. If, by some miracle, I ever were to receive a sparkly gift I would probably be too afraid to wear it. If someone ever decided to make an honest woman of me, they’d better be smart and slap a lifesaver on my finger cause a diamond, in my care, would not be a safe investment.

Plus, to be quite honest, I just never got it. What’s the big deal? I got over sparkly stuff when I was about fourteen. Not to mention the fact that most people I know are about as financially solvent as I am, which means they can’t, by a long shot, afford to buy that sort of stuff. The question remains, then, what would ever inspire me to buy it for myself? Dementia, I think. If I had that kind of disposable income, you’d better believe I wouldn’t waste it on something shiny (unless I was high, maybe). I’d probably blow it all on concert tickets, CDs, books, or that $2,000 mountain bike I’ve been drooling over for months. All a far cry from my supposed “best friend,” the useless diamond.

So there I was, in scrubby jeans, scuffed red Docs, and faded jean jacket, stooping over jewelry cases to try to check out the price tags so carefully tucked out of view without looking too terribly obvious. If I worked at one of those stores I wouldn’t be interested in helping someone like me out, that’s for sure. It must have been a slow night, however, and I was quickly tailed in every store (hmmm…maybe I looked like a thief?). Men with much prettier nails than mine pulled out gem after gem, spewing a lot of garbage about diamonds lasting forever, telling me my sisters (as if he knew them) would be thrilled at my choices, complimenting my taste.

I scored at the first store I went to, found a three-diamond necklace on the most delicate of white gold chains that just called my L’s name. It was beautiful, elegant, simple, and perfect for her. I tried to fight the acid reflux or whatever was going on in my digestive tract as I signed the credit card receipt, closed my eyes and pictured a night at home with a book and the bagels (my most effective relaxation technique), and went in search of K’s gift. I was much less successful with her. In fact, I still haven’t found her gift. To remedy the situation I will spend hours agonizing about it until I inevitably skip out of work early and run myself ragged looking for the perfect gift…but I’m getting off track.

I took the ridiculously over-packaged gift home, had a quick conversation with L about how she should not expect wrapping or a card (I feel that one little bauble shouldn’t kill an entire tree just to dress it up), and went home to breathe into a recycled paper bag and try to forget about my overdue utility bills, the three other birthday gifts I have to buy this week, the shower gift, and the speeding ticket that I still haven’t paid.

After I calmed down a bit, took a relaxing shower, and padded around the house for a while in my skivvies (man, I love living alone), my curiosity got the better of me. I lit a cigarette and glanced at the pretty bag from the jeweler with skepticism and a teeny bit of suspicion. I tiptoed across the kitchen and poked it. Nothing. I peered in, I backed away, I peered again. What the hell, I thought. I reached in, grabbed the box, and set it down again. I poked and peered. I listened, I smelled, even the dogs seemed fascinated. I opened the box only to discover another box and wondered that something so tiny required so much crap around it. The second box, I must admit, was sort of pretty, at least, if I were the sort of girl that thought that sort of thing was pretty. But I don’t. Ok? Didn’t I already tell you that I don’t?

I opened the second dainty box and held the necklace in the light. Oooohhh. Sparkly. Even the dainty white gold chain looked gorgeous. I held the necklace out and compared it with my grotty surroundings. Ok. Looks even better in my shitty house. Before I knew what was happening, a force pulled me to the bathroom in a trance-like state for further inspection of the necklace. The bathroom, coincidentally, contains the only mirror in my house (I usually check my reflection in the toaster before I go out), and it beckoned with impatience. Ok, I thought. If I WERE the type of girl that liked this type of thing, I’d probably try it on, wouldn’t I? Ignoring the site of my chipped nail polish and unsightly hangnails as I disengaged the fragile thing from it’s multiple trappings, I fumbled for a second or two before managing to get it around my neck.

And, ok, maybe NOW I get it. Pretty diamond…

Then, cursing, I tore my eyes away from the mirror before whatever force in those wretched things managed a complete personality transplant and had me forever drooling at jewelry store windows. I managed, I’m not sure how honestly, given my inferior motor skills, to secure the stupid thing back into all three dozen of its boxes and bags and what have you, gagged again when I looked at the receipt, realized that I’d had enough, and went to bed.

This afternoon begins part two of the jewelry store experience. Send your good thoughts my way.