It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that bling
Actually … actually … I’m a very bling-averse woman.
It’s true. I’m not attracted to shiny or sparkly in clothing or in jewelry, indeed am almost inevitably put off by wearables with those attributes. (And please forgive me that “wearables”. It’s a bit ew-y, but I’m failing at coming up with a better word.) Even in the ’80s, when I wore pounds and pounds of jewellery, it wasn’t bling-y, my favourite earrings being ones I’d fashioned from a little pair of red, yellow, and green plastic dimestore airplanes or maybe the pair I made from my extracted wisdom teeth. I have no engagement ring and my wedding ring is not a gold band but a a little piece of sculpture, really, made by the divine Vivienne Jones, of twining silver vine branches with a few small gold elements — a leaf, two tiny berries, one slender tendril. Not this
, but similar.
Anyway, I’ve probably said things like, “I hate gold. I’d never wear it cos I hate it and I’m not going to wear it, stupid gold, cos I hate it.” And then lo and behold, a bunch of oddball gold stuff enters my field of vision that oh! mon dieu! makes me happy with happysauce and a side of happy cos I’m kind of a tart when it comes to oddball and willing to forgive even goldenness if the oddball is enchanting enough. Which it is, with this stuff.