I lost my ring today.1 The one my great aunt Marilyn got me for my college graduation. It must’ve flown off my pinky finger when I was trying to dig a splinter out from underneath my toenail on the corner of 9th and South street in Philadelphia. Or maybe it happened when I went to take a 0.5 selfie of me and my Megs in our matching muffs outside the Philly Cheese School (from where I will be obtaining my cheesemonger certification). While frolicking about, I always wore it on my pinky because when I would wear it on my ring finger, it would swell, and the ring would be impossible to take off. Although now, I find that a fat, purple finger is preferable to my sterling silver starburst ring with turquoise adornments lost in the South Philly Italian Market abyss.
I do think karma is in part responsible for this because just the other week, I was thinking out loud in my head about how I wish Aunt Marilyn would have gifted ME her heirloom gold ruby ring instead of my cousin Abby for her college graduation because Abby “doesn’t even wear rings” and somehow “lost it before ever wearing it.”
My impure thoughts of envy caught up with me today. Look who’s laughing now. It’s God. He’s been testing me day-in and day-out by dangling metaphorical carrots of sentiment in front of my face, only to swipe them away the second I acknowledge what they mean to me. Let's take a walk down memory lane, shall we? There was the vintage porcelain watermelon clock I got to kickstart my apartment beautification project; a wheel thrown ceramic plate fired in a matte emerald glaze with black iron speckles I bought from a specialty ceramic/stationery store while on a girls trip in Brooklyn; and the hand-carved-in-Arizona marble mushroom lamp I received as a 2023 Valentine’s Day gift from my then-boyfriend. All of these have shattered. The former two through the fault of my own carelessness. The lamp at the hands of a mover I hired to transport everything I own to a unit three floors below in the same building (long story… TLDR: gas leak) who later pissed in my toilet and left it unflushed with the toilet seat up. I’m not going to spell out exactly why I was devastated by the loss of each one, but I have long been miffed about why I place such an emphasis on sentimental items.
In order to talk myself down from having a complete writhing-around-on-the-ground meltdown about losing this ring, an item of significant sentimental value, I had to repeat over and over the line, “This is a testament to my irrational attachment to the material.” Nothing is mine to keep. I can’t take this ring with me when I die. Wearing fine jewelry does not improve my life in any meaningful way. I am still interesting and funny and smart and loved even if I don’t wear cool rings. Financial value aside, the personal value I’ve assigned to the ring and the clock and the plate and the lamp still remains.
Every time I have lost (or shattered) something, I am reminded that life is not made up of things or souvenirs or trinkets, but the experiences and people that made each item valuable. If you want to be annoying and technical about it, then sure, there are things that will last forever and outlive the human race (i.e. microplastics), but my possession of an item is only valid as long as I am alive to lay claim to it. And no, there is nothing wrong with attaching value to material objects. I am not hard launching a pivot into an Eastern religious doctrine, nor advocating for you to overcome all Earthly desires. I am still a hedonist at heart that finds value in worldly pleasures. But when it comes to this ring, for example, Buddha’s got some points I cannot lie. Reflecting on which material items I grieve the loss of has been very eye opening for me in terms of how I interpret permanence. It’s a concept that has deeply unsettled me for years, and is a major contributing factor to my indecisiveness.
I have found that getting tattoos has been a great exercise for 1) combatting my indecision, and 2) reckoning with permanence in the context of my ever changing personal philosophy. When I think about permanence, I am always struck by what my Uncle Mark said to his wife, Aunt Lynne, when she was aghast to see that I had injected permanent ink in the shape of Charles Schulz’s Snoopy x4 across my forearms. He said, “Lynne, you know we made a permanent decision at that age… to get married.” (Sidenote: I would just like to express the utmost gratitude to Uncle Mark for coming to the defense of my tattoos in solidarity, which is really saying something in my family. His own sister (my mother) can barely bring herself to look at the ink on my body.) Getting back to the point… These days, marriage hardly feels as permanent as tattoos. But I love the idea that it can be. Having a voice in the back of my head constantly telling me, “You can always change your mind” has proven to be very disruptive and unproductive as I’m trying to forge my way in the world. There are some things in life you cannot change, and thinking otherwise often provides a false sense of security. Thinking that there are endless possibilities available to me at all times is not realistic. It’s exhausting and overwhelming trying to consider them all and give equal validity to each one.
It’s not so much the act of making a decision that paralyzes me, but the inevitable ripple effect it catalyzes that weighs heavy on my mind. Acknowledging that any choice I make will have lasting effects throughout the course of my life is daunting. Majoring in political communication, entering into a year and a half long relationship, working in food service instead of using my political communication degree… These are all permanent decisions. Even if just for the time being, they are permanent for that particular phase of life. If you consider The Fault in Our Stars to be a biblical text (which I do), then you’re aware that some infinities are bigger than other infinities. A made decision is true and enduring. Until it’s not.
Not to get all insufferable, but it kinda must be said that the only truly permanent thing on Earth is death. (I oppose nihilism, so please don’t equate this admission of fact to me believing life to be meaningless. I don’t.) The choices we make in life are intrinsically fluid. Tattoos can be removed, marriages ended, houses sold. But going through life operating under that mindset is lonely and sad. The societal importance attributed to permanence makes these things (getting married, buying a house, etc) worth doing. I think the idea of non-permanence as justification for making a particular choice removes the meaning from it. In the context of my duck tattoos (the loon for my father’s father and the mallard for my mother’s father), it would be disrespectful to myself and the meaning I’ve constructed for them if, in trying to soften the blow for my mom, I told her, “I can always get them removed.” Why would I want these visible reminders of my grandfathers to disappear? My body is my own, but it also only exists because of the generations before me. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with using my flesh as a tribute to those who made my life possible. Maybe that’s corny. I also just like the way they look, and that can be reason enough. And if I ever get to a point in my life where I don’t like the way they look? At least they brought joy to a past version of myself. So why would I ever want to erase that?
The loss of my aforementioned ring sent me into a spiral of what I value most in life and which of those values would mean anything once my time on Earth is finished, which values would outlive my physical being. Rarely are they tangible. I believe we have a choice in permanence. By continuously choosing for something to remain present in our lives, we eternally reaffirm our commitment to it.
Written on February 17th.
Maggie, this piece is amazing!! Finally someone has put these feelings to words!! <3
Love the rebrand chickie!!! ❤️🍒