It's Over

HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT, M. and I finally started looking at wedding bands yesterday, in the Diamond District of all the Godforsakenest of Godforsaken places, and it was all very overwhelming and disillusioning and awkward (e.g. "Here, look at zees, eez the zame one Brad Pitt wearink"), but then a co-worker directed me to this place and I've now found several rings that I might love, all of which would force me to get over my lifelong dream of having a platinum ring like my mother's, but all of which are also handmade and beautiful so it wouldn't really matter, but they all evidently require at least six weeks of handmaking time, plus M. knows someone who knows someone who works there whom he doesn't like or who doesn't like him or who bought me the chicken pot or something and I knew this would happen, I just knew I'd let some major make-or-break thing slip right through the cracks, it probably happened while I was sitting shivah for my chicken pot or writing thank you notes or comparing shades of ecru, but now the whole precious thing is tarnished or it seems that way anyways and I'm going to have to go to Zales(TM) like Crazy Judy Who Sits Next To Me suggested, and when my great grandchildren come to visit and start to finger my tarnished and rusted and fake 8-karat aluminum wedding band and ask me to tell them the story behind it, all I'll be able to say is, "I got it at Zales," so at this point I may as well just sell the KitchenAid mixer and the crock pot and the cookbooks and bundt pans and split the money with M. and move to a deserted refrigerator box on the outskirts of Duluth with all the other Failed Brides.





Then again........



I could be watching my hands peel off as I swim around in my own urine inside a giant glass ball.