I love watches, really, dating back from when they were intense objects of desire, mostly because my mom wouldn't get me one until I could tell time on a regular analog clock — which was probably pretty wise. I finally got a Casio digital watch once, which I wore until it fell apart, and lusted for one of those calculator watches, which could have permanently altered my relationship with school mathematics. I still remember noticing them, and I particularly remember my Uncle Gerry showing me his, which could keep military time which he said he could never keep straight from when he was in the service.
I bought my current watch in spring 2000, and it remains very special to me. I'd long wanted a Swiss Army watch since I saw a friend in college with one, and when my previous one broke I decided the time was right. I bought mine at one of those odd Midtown electronics stores, which was in my office building on Broadway and 57th. It is a Wenger — which I guess is the RC Cola to Victorinox's Coke — and I likely paid too much, but it is still with me. It was important because I was still even then getting over a nasty break-up, and the idea of marking my future hours and days in a totally new way was very appealing to me. I thought about all the time I'd looked down at my old watch waiting to meet whats-her-name, etc., and it was like getting a totally fresh start.
And together we had a lot to mark! I counted down the minutes before my wedding on that watch, I timed the minutes between my wife's contractions when our daughter was being born on it. Nothing about it suggests "bling," it is serviceable, now considerably scratched and scuffed, but wholly a part of my life.
And in July, I very nearly lost it. I mentioned earlier that getting home from my trip to Croatia this summer involved a six-hour bus trip from Istria to Venice, which finally ended at San Basilio ferry terminal. After I grabbed my bag and jumped off the bus, I was about halfway to the terminal when I looked down to check just how awfully late we were when I saw that the watch was gone. I ran back to the still parked bus, urged the driver to open up, and prowled around what had been my seat on my hands and knees, pulling up the cushions, running my hand between the cracks (and really: yuck). No luck. The magnificently annoyed driver stood behind me watching, commenting that I probably lost it at the rest area where we stopped near Trieste on the way. I knew that wasn't the case — I'd been checking regularly at the end of our trip because I was desperate for it to be over. I knew the driver wanted to get going, that it was nowhere to be seen, and I quietly made peace with the idea that I'd lost it, somehow, in Venice. It was sad, but sometimes things just fly away when they have to.
To make perfectly sure, I left the bus through the rear door as I had the first time, and made sure to look around on the ground nearby just in case. I took a quick peak underneath the bus and, voila, there is was, just about beneath the rear tire, moments away from getting unceremoniously pancaked. Seems the strap had broken when I pulled on my backpack, and it had dropped. That strap, which I had gotten in Hungary a year earlier, had been giving me problems for awhile. I snatched it up, held it up for the driver to see (jerk), and put it snugly in my pocket, where it would remain for the rest of the trip.
Back home I put the watch on the shelf by my keys, and there it remained. In our age, it is pretty easy to get away without having a watch — we have our phones and their are clocks all over and there is blessed routine as well. But since I got around to fixing it and wearing it again I've felt much more relaxed in a hard to pin down way. Wearing a wristwatch is like having a temporal map on your arm, an non-intrusive presence that helps you locate yourself within your surroundings. Perhaps ironically, it gives you the comfort and security to live in the moment.
Just as long as you make sure the thing doesn't fall off.
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