The affinity some have for jewelry boggles my mind. Regardless where a piece of bling rates on the glitter-meter, I can't understand how accentuating their body with an object dug from the ground makes a person feel pretty.

If a parent tells their physically frightful child, "beauty originates from the inside," the ugly tyke rolls his or her eyes. In modern society, such talk is trite. In my opinion, it couldn't be more accurate.

I'm far from hideous. In emails from males to their friends offering, without my permission, to facilitate a blind date, my looks are praised. I envy Kate Hudson's bust, but have an athletic body and comely mug.

To most, the above is seen as boasting. I have no desire to brag about things over which I have little control. You can't pick the natural shape of your nose. I don't exert 'round the clock to achieve a forehead proportionate to the remainder of my face. Actions impact the tightness of my posterior, but it's not kept firm for the express purpose of attracting complementary looks.

Bone structure is not how I judge, so I'm certainly not impressed with the quality of good hanging from ones earlobe. In most cases, sparkling diamonds prove you've managed nothing more than reeling-in someone with loads of disposable income.

Even watches are difficult to fathom in this day in age. A clock is in my sight line 85% of the time I look straight ahead, be it the one on my computer, the one in my car, the one on my microwave, the one on my stove, the one on my nightstand, the one on my smart phone or the one on my television. A push of the clicker-button is required to view the clock on my television but I hardly think such a minor inconvenience excuses a major purchase.

Despite my aversion to timepieces, gemstones and precious metals, the other day I was in the necklace section of a mall jewelry store. After selecting a basic piece made of gold, I paid the poorly-dressed man, disguised as a well-dressed man, and then hit the pretzel booth for a sans butter original and medium lemonade.

As usual, the human dough dispenser responded to my sincere "thanks very much" with chilly silence.

At home, I adorned my neck with the necklace. Beneath my chin it sparkled as I paid a couple bills and hand-addressed an envelope to Mrs. Patel. On blank pieces of typing paper I practiced my penmanship. I wanted the envelope to scream, "Sent from a psycho bitch!"

The following email resulted . . .

From: Carmen Patel

To: Daniel Patel

Subject: Necklace

Sent: Wednesday, December 1, 2010 11:22 AM


I presume you'd appreciate applause for dumping whichever mistress sent back the lovely necklace you exchanged for sexual favors. The envelope it came in was made out to Mrs. Patel. What--didn't have the courtesy to tell her my first name? Would've made it too personal? How stupid are you? You're not supposed to piss off a concubine if she knows where your wife lives! Hey, maybe I should be ecstatic you suck so bad at cheating! Maybe it means you lack experience.

Your faithful wife,