I don’t think I properly value my time
Apparently I place a limited value on time. That value is $8.88, plus tax.
That's precisely what I paid for a new wristwatch this week, to replace the one I broke a short while go when I banged my arm against a sharp corner and shattered the crystal. Well, it wasn't a crystal really, more just a cheap piece of see-through plastic. I paid about eight bucks for that watch, too. I've been a cheapskate for some time now.
I probably should put a higher price tag on my time, 'cuz as we all know, it's a priceless, limited commodity that not even an Elon Musk or a Jeff Bezos can horde. We each get maybe 80 or 90 years, some a little more, some a lot less, and in the grand scheme of eternal time, that's barely a blink. Of course then I always wonder why it seems to pass so slowly when I'm listening to someone yakking about their latest hip replacement surgery complications -- really, that much pus, huh? -- but in reality, that clock of life ticks steadily along.
So does the second hand on my new $8.88 watch. It's handsome, really (I like to buy things that remind me of myself), silver stretch band, silver frame, bold black numbers on a white face, a nice touch of reflective color on the minute and hour hands so I can see in low-light conditions that I should've went to sleep two hours earlier. It has a metal bezel and a stainless steel back, and its timing mechanism is Japanese. That's gotta' be good, I'm thinkin,' as I've never known a Japanese person who was late. Or early, now that I think about it.
My new timepiece is a George Men's Analog Expansion Band model, and while that may sound impressive (or not, I'm not sure exactly what excites you anymore), this is really the closest thing on the planet to a sundial in terms of simplicity. I like that in a wristwatch, as I do not need it to tell my resting pulse, or my blood sugar level, or the latest stock market trend. When I glance at my left lower arm, I just want to know the time (well, OK, and maybe if that black-purple-red-green growth with the black hair sticking out of it has doubled in size since last Tuesday). Hmm. 1 o'clock already. Days of Our Lives is starting soon. Better get out of bed.
When I picked out my watch Monday evening, I rejected the expensive ones, you know, like the $12.88 George Men's Analag Cuff Watch with Bracelet Accessory and certainly the $14.98 George Men's Genuine Diamond Accent Quad Metalized Bezel (in the gunmetal tone, of course), because, geez, than everybody would just say I'm showin' off. To me, even the inner circle of red numbers indicating military time is more than I need on my watch, although every now and then I like to brag that I was up this morning by 1700 hours.
Wait. What's that? 1700 hours isn't morning? Geez, no wonder Jeopardy had already started.
The one thing I demand in a wristwatch is a stretchable metal band. Now I may be somewhat flexible when it comes to food, mattress firmness, interior room temperature and catheters (I prefer a Foley, but an external intermittent model will do in a pinch, pardon the pun), but I absolutely must have a metal watch band. In my opinion, a leather or other animal skin type band is for sissies, one with a buckle is a downright pain in the arse, and as for one made of rubber, well, why not just go on down to Shopko and buy a bag of rubber bands and strap it up.
Wait. What's that? All the Shopkos are closed? You're kidding, right?
It might be because my daddy always wore a wristwatch with a metal band that I must have one myself. I remember as a wee lad putting his watch over my puny hand, and the thing would just dangle there, but I felt cool. I didn't know how to tell time then anyway, and my concept of hours and minutes revolved around bath time and bed time and 'Go stand in the corner for 30 minutes' after I'd dumped something sticky (and with any luck, smelly, too) in my sister's hair. And she wonders why it's falling out.
So when it came time to wear a watch of my own, I went metallic band, no questions asked. I've had varying brands and models for years -- probably about a dozen or so, I'd guess -- but I went cheap with them some time ago. I mean, a Rolex is nice and all, I suppose, but I'd be so afraid of scratching it that I'd wear my arm in a cast. With an $8.88 model, you can use that arm to bludgeon a rabid critter if you need to, and well, if it breaks, you get a new one. Just like the other day when I looked down to see what time it was, and I noticed the plastic lens was gone and the hands had stopped turning. (By the way, I thought for sure that was some cosmic sign that a major cataclysmic event had occurred at 7:19 that evening, but no luck.) The last time I had a pricey watch, I took it off while gutting out a deer and left it laying out there somewhere between the spleen and liver. That's when I realized a man ought to buy his watches like his underwear, just take 'em off when you're done with' em, toss 'em aside, and get some new ones. And I wonder why I'm not married. Anyway, the point of all this -- Ha, like there really is one! -- is that it struck me last night as I was buying my watch that I was spending the least amount of money possible on keeping track of what is perhaps the most important thing I have in this life (no, not my Bart Starr autograph). If you think about it, what else is there but time; if we have it, we can do whatever we choose, when it's gone, we're kaput. Sure, our health is important, one can score perfectly on a fitness test, but when the clock of life strikes midnight, it's useless. Money? Yeah, right, if you think your bank account size is more important than the minutes left in your hourglass, then, well, why don't you just transfer most of that cash over to my account and I'll carry the burden for you.
I suppose what matters here is not what I use to measure my hours, but to always remember to use them wisely. They're running out, I realize, every day my allotted number gets fewer, and as the hands on my cheap watch spin 'round and 'round, the inevitable draws nearer.
Oh, look, my George Men's Analog Expansion Band says 4:25. Almost time for Gilligan's Island!
THE
BORN
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