A Watchful Sentiment – Snakes in the Grass

Let’s start by agreeing that we all get carried away now and then. Don’t try and argue the point with me because otherwise you’re just not being honest. We’re here today to discuss being transparently truthful, warts and all.

Perhaps for some of you it’s the three lumps of sugar in your coffee instead of two. No one’s looking after all, and there are the recent lab results showing that you’re fit as a fiddle. Besides, those usually too-tight tan slacks fit just fine only three weeks ago, right? For the five minutes you wore them anyway. You, staring in front of the full-length mirror muttering, “Yeah, this’ll work, this will definitely work. Tomorrow for sure.”

The question I therefore submit to you today is, what’s the harm in a little self-rationalizing? To be specific, don’t we all need to splurge now and then? A little devil character on your shoulder is constantly whispering in your ear for you to do something completely at odds with what your conscience is warning you against. Sometimes you just have to ignore him.

Psst! You deserve this!

And if YOU deserve something, then I do too.

Isn’t it you and me, after all, who figuratively always come to a complete stop when driving? Aren’t we the ones who never fail to wave the person with only two items behind us to go ahead to the front of the line? We’ve even been known to press the 25% gratuity button on occasion, am I right? We are the stalwart remnants of an ever-disappearing civil and gracious society. Surely we’re allowed a crumb of a reward now then.

And so begins my own sordid little tale of self-rationalization. I leave it to the six of you out there to decide just how gluttonous my behavior actually was. What I can share is that it all started out so innocently, what with a simple requirement to replace a watch battery. From there things got a little ugly, fiscally speaking. Embarrassingly so actually.

A very brief explanation as background: I have a lot of watches. As with most excess, it began with very nimble aspirations: a sporty model for everyday errands and road trips, an elegant one for evenings out, and an even more elegant one to expand on that JFK Jr. resemblance for which I’m so famous. Three watches, easy as pie.

Then, sometime during the early aughts, things happened. Specifically, deaths in the family. First my dad died, and his Seikos, Rolexes, and one Wittnauer all passed down to me. Then my Uncle Bob, a jeweler by trade, also passed away and somehow I ended up with one of his watches too. Dad bought watches only though his brother Bob, so there was quite a bit of style and brand overlap in what they each owned. Several years later, when my eldest sister’s husband died, she gifted me a few of his watches, all of which were quite nice and even included one that is solar. I slowly had a lot of something I hadn’t previously even coveted.

Prior to the watches, the only thing I was ever really collected in the way of styling was jackets. I had all types: rain, poplin, bomber, jean, parka, canvas, etc. The front hall closet at one point became not so much a place for a few articles of outerwear, but rather a stark warning to guests that they really weren’t welcome. I had a jacket for all weather conditions and personal moods. It was all a very middle class status-signaling. Much less expensive than owning multiple cars.

Eventually I was forced to shed most of the jackets. Life’s changes such as divorce, remarriage, retirement, and a cross-country move necessitated lightening the load. Besides, between me and thee, maybe keeping the bomber jacket and relocating to a tropical climate was never going to be practical.

But l did keep those watches. Beginning with lockdown, I stopped wearing them for the most part, and they remained in a case on a shelf in my closet. When I pulled one out a couple of weeks ago, I noticed that it had stopped and needed a new battery. As I looked over the rest of them, I saw that not a one was actually working anymore. Neglect had led to decay. My twinkly agglomeration was a depressing assortment of dead batteries, torn leather bands with whole loops missing, and some scratched faces to boot.

The ones with metal bands offered the most grief, which turned into a rather personal and cruel realization: With their shiny clasps thankfully still opening and closing correctly, they were unfortunately sized to fit someone other than the 64 year old man I am now. They did once fit perfectly on the 30-to-40 year-old dude who acquired them. Now, though, they hung on my wrist like a woman’s bracelet. I’ve lost a bit of weight in recent years, and my arms, wrists, waist, etc. are all smaller. (It’s the “etc.” part that I find the most troubling; Gorgeous regularly delights in mocking my ever-shrinking gluteus maximus region.) So in addition to battery replacement, all of the metal bands needed to have links removed to fit the increasingly shrinking me.

Every single watch therefore required some kind of attention. My precious swag was replicating my own current life journey.

I scooped all of them up and brought them to a local watch repair. The leather and metal bands were the easiest to either replace or repair. Unfortunately, the jeweler noticed additional problems as she began replacing batteries. While a few of the watches started right up, others had tattered movement mechanisms which no longer worked. Parts needed to be replaced, some of them thankfully right there in the shop. Two of the watches, however, required being sent out to another facility for a higher level of repair.

One of those two was my beloved gold Citizen, bought on an early nineties international flight from London, back when flight attendants hawked duty free goods in addition to Chivas Regal and Tab soda. It was the first quality piece of jewelry I had ever bought for myself. When the jeweler told me it would cost $120 to repair, I didn’t even blink.

Nor did I blink when she told me the Movado would be $85.

Ditto for the $60 repair of my Dad’s quartz Seiko, which I was told could be done right there in the store. Convenience!

You can see where this is going, dear reader. I was listening to the little devil on my shoulder and not my conscience. I actually held one watch back, the ESQ, which would also require being sent out å† an estimated cost of $70. Maybe next year.

Not one of my watches are actually worth anything (I’ve checked). But they are sentimental, and as you no doubt can relate to from your own life, sentiment can be the worst kind of expense sometimes. Sure I can let it all go. Except I can’t, and therefore I won’t.

I spent a small fortune. Not enough to atone during Yom Kipper later this year, but enough to have to do visual gymnastics in ignoring Gorgeous’ eyebrow-raising after the three –count ’em — three return visits to the jeweler.

Memories are priceless after all. And so is having the ability to cut a dashing figure…

Until next time…