Goodbye, purple guitar pick necklace
I suppose it’s sort of well known that I wear this purple guitar pick necklace all the time. People noticed it was me when I wore it. They said it was like a part of me and I wore it all the time. They asked if it meant something.
It was a part of me. It did mean something, but I didn’t know what that something was. I don’t think I ever got into the backstory of it; I may have mentioned it in passing, somewhere on my blog, but I don’t ever remember writing a post dedicated to it. There isn’t much to the necklace, I just happened to wear it every day for almost nine years, since 2006.
I’m a romantic; a sentimental person thinks things will last, a romantic person hopes against hope that they won’t. –F. Scott Fitzgerald
Understandably, I took it off when I had ballet exams or when I went to weddings, for the sake of the outfit or the occasion, really. I replaced the chain a few times because through wearing it in the shower, it discoloured or tarnished.
Well, after a bit of thought the other week, I stopped wearing it.
How I obtained this necklace is not really an interesting story. We were given little plastic bread bag holders as guitar picks during high school when we played the guitar, because the school couldn’t justify spending money on real guitar picks for the students. This resulted in people buying their own and leaving them around the music room or forgetting about them completely. I may have been obsessed with collecting them for a while. The purple one was one I simply found. At the time I was with my friend Karen, and we had spent many lunchtimes in the music room just jamming, as they say. While I miss the days we had a good old band and things were swell, and I even remember writing far too many songs for anyone to really be interested – including one titled My Drumsticks Made A Hole In My Bag1 – this strange wave of punk-chick(en)-rock2 was one I took great passion in at the time.
I suppose it was Karen’s idea to make a necklace out of the pick; it really wasn’t all that special to begin with. The fishbone charm, however, was from a t-shirt I had at a much younger age. It was red and had charms sewn all over the front, mostly fake coins. There was a key that I remember giving to a quiet girl named Sarah before she moved schools, as no one else had wanted it. It’s a bit of a coincidence that I later became a pescetarian and the fishbone holds some relevance in that the only meat I eat is some seafood – like it was meant to be? I don’t really believe in fate most of the time anyway.
I stopped wearing the necklace when my thoughts pulled themselves together and realised that maybe there really wasn’t anything special about this necklace anyway. My mother had always pointed out it was getting old and gross, and quite frankly, it was. I found myself scratching at the purple, whereupon small flakes released themselves and fell, proving the guitar pick’s age. I’m surprised the fishbone has retained its gold colour somewhat. The fishbone has made some kind of strange imprint on the pick itself, so much so that the back of the pick almost has a shadow of the fish.
I thought I would have it forever, I thought surely I would never get over wearing it, and feared days when I would have to take it off. I thought about replacing it, but every time I chose another colour instead, it just seemed wrong. But the more I thought about what it actually meant, and the fact that it affected silly decisions like the necklaces I liked to wear – I preferred long chains just so I could still wear the guitar pick without it being covered – the less it seemed to matter. I remember an annoying time someone asked me to take it off, and I considered that rude, and I remember refusing to take it off when my mother asked. I almost lost it once, and my heart sank. I had looked in my garden at night with my phone as a torchlight, hoping I had just dropped it somewhere, before I found it.
I guess it was something that decreased in value over time, just sitting at my collarbone and withering away. It didn’t particularly remind me of anything, but I had worn it so long that it felt like a part of me. When I forget to wear earrings in all six of my piercing holes, I feel somewhat naked and bare, and it was somewhat the same for this necklace. It broke sometimes, and I would put it in my pocket until I got home, but I found myself reaching up to my neck and realising it wasn’t there.
I think I’ve become used to it, now that I decided to stop wearing it. Instead, I wear a silver classic “G” pendant on a chain, that my mother gave me. At the time, she said said, “Well, it’s supposed to replace that purple thing, you know.”
Initially I had been reluctant to even let go of my purple guitar pick. But I guess it’s like what they say with all things, it had a good run, so, goodbye dear purple guitar pick necklace.