Dating Tales

For only $16.2 million, Georges Marciano, the founder of Guess clothing company, purchased the largest high-quality diamond ever found. Sotheby’s (one of the world’s largest auction houses) sold the 84.37 carat rock last week and now it’s making the news.

You obviously can’t wear this thing, but it might make a nice centerpiece. But then again, who feels comfortable with a $16 million centerpiece. Maybe Mr. Marciano just wants to tell people that he has it and then leave it in a safe somewhere.

If only I were rich…

I had been dating my boyfriend for about a year when I decided to bring over an alarm clock. I wasn’t moving in, per se, but I was staying over enough nights to require a proper waking each morning.

It was a simple enough process, really. I moved the night stand on my side of the bed away from the wall an inch or two and threw the cord behind the table. I wasn’t able to reach the outlet by just standing there so I laid down on the floor to reach the plug.

Not surprisingly I had to reach through an assortment of dust bunnies and change to connect the plug to the outlet. What was surprising, though, was the presence of a yellow scrunchy. Maybe it was more like an elastic, but either way, it was not mine.

In walks the BF and I throw the soft hair tie his direction asking who the other woman is. He laughs and I laugh knowing that there is no other woman. I know this because of the dust bunnies and because no one has worn a yellow scrunchy since the 90s… or at least I hope so.

My concern changed. I don’t think he’s seeing someone else. But what kind of woman was he seeing before me? The kind of woman to wear a yellow scrunchy?

Was she a fashion imbecile? Was she an athlete? Was she 20 years older than me?

I never got an answer. My boyfriend couldn’t stop laughing long enough to answer my questions.

There are some things that I just refuse to spend money on and those are the things that go on my Christmas list. This year I wish Christmas was earlier because I’m in a wedding very soon and could use some extra padding on the rear. This might be better than the padded bra.

OK, maybe it doesn’t actually stink, but I don’t like it.

I had a boyfriend once who wore holey underwear. I used to come over to his place with new pairs and sneak them into his drawer. The first time he noticed right away saying: “I prefer Calvin Klein, not Hanes.”

“I don’t care what you like; just wear some without so many holes,” I said.

He didn’t. I came over a few days later to find him in front of the TV in his underwear with holes.

I decided to try again. I bought a three pack of Calvins and snuck those in his drawer too. Again he noticed pretty quick and said, “I only like gray, I’ll never wear white.”

“I don’t care what you like; just wear some without so many holes.”

Again, he kept wearing the holey underwear never letting go of what I thought should be embarrassing. He wasn’t embarrassed.

A third time I brought over three brand new, freshly washed, gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs. I was certain this would be a successful feat. I nonchalantly opened his drawer, and carelessly threw in the boxers so he wouldn’t notice anything out of order. If I folded them or even placed them neatly, he’d know they were from me.

A few days went by and I came over for some dinner and a Netflix only to find him on the couch pulling on the errant strings of his holey underwear.

I had no choice. Without a seconds delay I surprised him by pulling off his underwear and running to the trash to rid me of them for good. I then went for the drawer to find the others. Coming up empty handed I went back to the living room where I had left him sitting.

And there he was, on the couch with the darned underwear back on. He had gone and pulled them out of the trash. I’m not sure if they were stinky before this incident, I never got close enough to notice, but I’m certain they were stinky now.

The feeling starts below the back side of my rib cage. My back aches and my sides are tight. The discomfort moves up my back to my shoulders where knuckle-sized knots have made their home. I’m tense all over. The pain spreads out along my upper arms and all the while continues up my neck and then to what seems like a grand finish at the back of my head with a headache.

Three months ago I went to my doctor to talk about this aggravating ending in my head and I learned that my headache is a direct result of a 15-hour day in stilettos. The feeling may start in my back, but the damage painlessly begins at my toes, which I now cannot feel.

This tortuous 15-hour-day I refer to was initiated by a demanding bride whose aim was to have five glamorous bridesmaids.

I wonder if I will still look glamorous with only four real toes.

I justified the $400 purchase from Christian Dior for this one time event because the shoes were cute. The shoes were gold and did have gemstones. If I had known then that I’d lose a toe and five grand over it I might not have been so agreeable and fought harder for the $90 pair of NineWests. If I had known then that my future involved a lifetime of closed toe shoes and short term financial ruin I might have voted for the $50 pair of Mudds.

The day at the wedding and half of the night at the reception I sported the gorgeous pumps with style. But it’s true, later that night I became that cliche bridesmaid. I had my glass of wine in one hand and the straps of my shoes hanging off my fingertips of the other hand. I’m not proud of these moments certainly captured in photos, but the whole situation was motivated by my throbbing and aching feet. When the clock struck midnight, and after the encouragement of the bride’s mother, I put the shoes back on my sore feet and limped back to my hotel room.

Things changed at this moment. The throbbing and aching in the ball of my right foot was replaced by a strange tingling sensation that ran from my toes to my knee. I blamed it on the wine.

A few hours later when I woke from my stupor I stood up to realize I could no longer feel the bottom of my right foot or the tips of all five toes. I inspected the bottom of my feet and discovered blisters and the beginning of calluses like I’ve never seen before. At this moment I opened the sliding glass door of my hotel room and threw the gorgeous gold and gemstone stilettos over the balcony and into the pool. As I watched the shoes tumble to their end, I couldn’t help but notice my toe-prints on the gold fabric.

Now, three months later, after a few visits to my podiatrist I still have not regained the ever-so-delightful feeling of my baby toe. The thought of missing a body part had never occurred to me until the moment my doctor handed me a Q&A pamphlet on toe reduction.

You say: So what? It is just a little piggy. But I say: It’s my little piggy and I want it to come home with me.

But, as it turns out, my little piggy is blue and is not coming home with me after all. So here I am in my podiatrist’s office looking at a catalog of prosthetic toes and learning that of all my options a plastic toe without a toenail is the most economical purchase. If I buy now, it’s only $4500.

Toenails are extra.