Watch Out
We went shopping for watches today—not that we bought any. It’s been so long since I’ve had a working watch, I couldn’t really decide on one. For himself, he prefers the high-tech black digital kind, and for me, he suggested a nice gold bracelet-like dressy thing. To be honest, I’m one of those wash-and-wear types, and I prefer a classic face with a leather strap for everyday wear, but the only ones like that at the store had Disney characters on them, and Disney characters on a watch are kind of a deal-breaker for me.
In other words, no thanks.
But as I browsed the display, I remembered the kind of trouble I used to get into when I wore a watch.
First of all, when you have a watch on your wrist, people expect you to know what time it is. I know this because they were always asking me for the time. And you know? I just never had the right time to give them. I always had my watch set about 5 or 7 minutes too fast—so I wouldn’t be late to anything, mind you.
Of course, everyone in the world knows that if you set your watch a few minutes fast to give yourself some extra time, you still know that you have that much time to waste before you really are late. Consequently, I was always in a rush.
But back to those people asking for the time…
I literally gave someone the time of day once (we were walking up the hill to school, he asked, and I answered), and ever after, he followed me around like a puppy dog. Even though he was a senior, he popped up at my sophomore year classes, then again after school, and once he even managed to finagle a ride from my mother when she came to pick me up. He would talk to me about the weirdest and the most arcane of things: the Japanese language (he wasn’t even Asian), animé (18 years old and into cartoons; tell me if that isn’t odd), the womanly act of giving birth (how beautiful and wonderful it is and all that), and how much he would love to experience such a thing (good gawd… don’t ask).
His too honest confessions and frequent appearances made me uneasy, so when he came around, I’d tense up with anxiety—which of course made him very concerned,… enough to place his hands on mine, or on my arms, or on my shoulders.
…which of course made me even more tense.
Chronic pleaser that I was, I remained ever so nice and polite with him, without being encouraging in any way. He in turn wrote me letter after letter—in both English and Japanese (who knew what those letters said!)—asking me if I’d like to hang out with him and his friends to watch some animé.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure he was—and still is—a wonderful person. I just wasn’t ready for anything like that—not for knowing what time it was. No. Not me.
After that, whenever anyone asked, “Excuse me. Do you have the time?”
…I would look at my watch, nod, say, “Why yes, I do,” and move on.
.
Oh, and now that I don’t wear a watch?
I tell them, “It’s a hair past a freckle,” then I go about my business.
