Although I am a bridal editor, I was bound and determined not to post anything about your wedding. The royal wedding? Well, sure. I happily weighed in on that. This was not the royal wedding.
But over the weekend, I saw glimpses of your hand in the pictures of your honeymoon scattered about the rags I bring to the beach, and I started to get nervous. Your engagement ring—all 20.5 carats of it—has troubled me since the moment it went on your hand, though, so I should have expected this.
It’s this, Kim, what I stumbled upon on Forbes today. Good God. (And not a good Good God.) That band. That band with that engagement ring. What’s going on here? Well, I could hanker a few guesses, but I won’t go there. And I’m actually not going to talk about money, either, or Hollywood, or reality stars, or greed, or extravagance, or any of the motives therein. I just want to talk about the diamonds. The diamonds are my only concern.
The diamonds are being assaulted here, plain and simple. There is a vulgar diamond crime occurring on your ring finger, and you are the perp. Stabler and Olivia should lock you up. There is a certain point at which even a diamond, arguably one of nature’s most precious gifts falling just after oxygen and water and fire but definitely before the Seven Wonders of the World, ceases to be wonderful and becomes something else, something foul. When it starts to look like something you ganked off the chandelier you used to stare at during family dinners at your great Aunt Pearl’s, something is wrong. And without going all “Fashion can be bought. Style one must possess” on you, it really is disturbing to think of the various funds and talent at your fingertips, and what this could have been. For shame. It makes me sad.
That’s all, Kim. It’s not your first offense, and it certainly won’t be your last. Carry on.
But what do you ladies think? Am I alone with my judgmental furrowed brow, or would you totally rock this set up if you could swing it?