Ode to the Jewelry I Sent to the Dump

I'm a bit of a jewelry fanatic. I don't wear it a lot, but I do have a much beloved collection, ranging from coconut husk bracelets to pearl earrings to glass necklaces (one from Venice, one from fake Venice at Disney's EPCOT center). I like pretty things. There's something feminine and empowering and aesthetically pleasing that comes with wearing the perfect piece of jewelry.

I will admit, though, that I may spend a bit too much timing browsing the Tiffany & Co. site when avoiding homework (the first time I wrote that I accidentally typed "Tiffany $ Co." - how appropriate). Occasionally I do so while listening to this, because "Clair de Lune" feels expensive to me. It's like how James Taylor feels nostalgic, and Ke$ha feels cheap.

I have a very difficult time letting go of jewelry. Especially broken jewelry. I don't like broken things - I like things I can fix. And I like to believe I can fix things, even when I can't. Thus, I have an entire two drawers of my old, dorky Target jewelry box filled exclusively with broken jewelry. Some of it dates back to sixth grade. It's all jewelry I once thought was beautiful, or had some sort of sentimental value. But today, I finally began to put it in perspective.

Those lovely pieces of treasured junk? They're broken. And I'm really not going to ever fix them.

Yes, sophomore prom was a night to be remembered for me. Yes, I thought I'd wear that gorgeous necklace on my wedding day. It's the necklace my mother pulled me out of school to buy. Instead of going to math, I sat in the alleyway behind Reams and bid on it at an auction. I won.

Then there's that bracelet - light blue beads and a red, red sun, a gift from my dad for no apparent occasion. It was beautiful. He found it in a shop above the Tea Grotto.

Or the necklace I bought in Tonga at a flea market - the same flea market where a woman with no teeth gave me a grocery bag full of limes, free, because I told her my grandparents were the 'Ulu'aves from Eua. She hugged me tight because she knew them; we're cousins.

But the bracelet isn't the undying symbol of my relationship with my father. My prom accessories will undoubtedly be unfashionable by the time I have an excuse to wear fancy jewelry, and to be quite honest, the other necklace has nothing to do with Tonga. Not once did I wear jewelry there. I accessorized instead with paint flecks and sweat.

And so, looking fondly over the items a last time, I dumped both drawers into a plastic garbage back and hauled it into the garage. Because I've come to realize I can hold onto the memories without holding onto the object.

That, and with all the Tiffany purchases I intend to make, I'm going to need the closet space.