At 23 years old I took one of the steps in the "how to have a happy life" script and shopped for THE diamond ring with my soon-to-be-but-now-x-husband. As was for so many of those long anticipated events fed by reading overly romantic novels and listening too closely to my mother, sitting in the diamond broker's office in the Los Angeles jewelry mart skyscraper had that strange detached "is this really it?" sense about it. I suppose in the original script I should have been in a romantic Tiffany style jewelry store, or maybe on a beach somewhere simply being presented with a little black box by the handsome prince on bended knee......
Instead the THIS IS IT day was in a spartan office equipped with a glass top desk and black velvet boxes filled with loose stones. But, even back then, my immature mind had enough maturity to tell myself to enjoy the moment. I searched for the romanticism in what was largely a business deal. With the broker we balanced the how big?, how perfect? (or rather, tolerably imperfect) and how much do you want to spend? questions posed to us. I remember deciding that since the brokers were a couple from Antwerp and Antwerp sounded sufficiently exotic and had that whiff of European quality about it, their providence was enough to impart the air of romanticism that I had expected. Honestly, I'm certain that back then I had no clear idea in which country Antwerp even was.
We settled on a beautiful brilliant cut solitaire and I wore the magic on my finger for the next 25 years.
That diamond was an important part of the script as it was supposed to promise everlasting love and happiness. I knew THAT story by heart. It sounds kind of crazy, but I never really got over the cozy feeling of security every time I glanced down at my left ring finger. There it was for all the world - and especially me - to see. I was loved and cherished and married and had the diamond ring to prove it.
Silly isn't it, that so much can be attributed to a hunk of mineral deposits.
Well lots has changed since that afternoon in LA, including the lesson that diamonds are forever.
But, when MFM told me that he wanted to take me to Anvers to "offer" me a ring (the French don't give presents, they offer them), at first the significance of this was a bit lost on me. That was, until I realized that Anvers is Antwerp (those silly French and all their own names for the places of others). I already knew that Antwerp meant diamonds and, in France as in the USA, when you give someone a diamond ring, it means something. By the way, I shouldn't accuse the French of name changing, Antwerp is Antwerpen so we are all guilty as charged.
I told myself that as nice as this all sounded, I already had one diamond sitting in a box in my desk drawer proven not to be forever, did I really want another? Besides, there wasn't a chapter in the script for more diamonds, unless of course we followed the urging of De Beers to "tell her you'd marry her all over again".
But then that only works if you stay with the same husband.
Well, we went anyway. So roughly 30 years after meeting the LA transplants from Antwerp, this weekend I really was in Antwerp with all those diamonds. Who would have ever guessed? I supposed this is what makes for a good story - you never really know what's coming next.
In spite of the assurances I told myself of what this next diamond was not, it, actually they, are something.
And what is this exactly?
If I had to put it all into words, I would say that the new ring I now wear, has in some ways, more meaning than the first one did at the time it was slipped on my finger. If for no other reason than I know what happened and what can happen to the best written scripts and the most ardent of dreams and yet I still slide it on and enjoy its symbolism of two shared lives.
My long trip from Los Angeles to Antwerp was definitely not anticipated, but as I already said, who likes a story where you already know what's going to happen?
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