I was changing after a recent swim when another man dressing a few lockers down on the same bench observed that I was switching watches. "So you have two watches, one for swimming and another for dress," he noted with ironic amazement.
I was embarrassed to admit that I own more than two watches. I own a dozen, nine of which are functional at any moment, and only five of which I wear on a regular basis.
Then for some reason, pride in timepiece?, I provided him with the extraneous information that my dress watch is also a scuba watch, water tight up to 100 meters, but I am reluctant to wear it while I am swimming laps for fear of scratching it against the bottom of the shallow end. My comrade in exercise smiled ruefully and recounted that he once swam while wearing his prized Rolex and cracked the crystal against the watchband of another swimmer. The Rolex, which had sentimental as well as monetary value, was ruined by the chlorine.
"You must have been heart-broken," I commiserated.
"Actually, it was liberating. We shouldn't be attached to possessions, right?" he asked. "If it were one of the instruments I use in my job, I would be concerned. But a watch is not a necessity."
"In principle I agree with you," I replied. "But I love my watches. Even the ones I never wear. They're talismen. They not only tell time but remind me of times."
He nodded more in sympathy for my mental defect than solidarity with my position.
"I replaced my Rolex with this thirty dollar watch," he said. "It's great. It keeps perfect time, has run on the same battery for eight years, and has other functions, too."
Being a watch-junkie, I was getting excited hearing about this exciting, versatile timepiece and asked him for the brand. Then we discussed the recent vicissitudes of the wrist-watch, how it had once been a token of milestone events--graduation, retirement, etc.--and not everyone had one. But now it was a common and cheap accessory to be purchased anywhere.
"And it's funny that watch lovers like a heavy watch even though it's clunky and gets in the way."
"They'd carry a sundial on their wrists," he said. "The odd thing is that the Swiss wind up and automatic watches don't even keep perfect time and they always need to be serviced. People are stupid."
It's a harmless obsession, I said. And we left it at that.
But like every other conversatio I have had with an intelligent stranger this did not leave me just like that. It shone a thin but penetrating light on some of my least observed values. Why, I asked myself, was I so compulsive about my watches, changing them, and carrying more than one? Did I really need one in a swimming pool? What did it say about me?
My obsession with watches began weeks after the birth of my daughter, when I was smitten by an illustration of a Swiss Army watch in a newspaper ad. The colorful bezel--a metallic lifesaver--and the round, childlike numbers of the dial charmed me even in black and white newsprint. For weeks I struggled with this unforeseen and irrational attraction. I was at the beginning of fatherhood, with a vulnerable baby and wife depending on me, yet I was like a six year old fantasizing about a watch. I did not immediately purchase the Swiss Army watch since I was suspicious and disdainful of my reasons for wanting it. Was I reverting to a childhood lust for toys that coincided with the birth of my child, or acting out my anxiety over the passage of time?
I resisted the whim. I already had a watch. It was the only one I owned in my adult life—an elegant, versatile Seiko my wife gave me unexpectedly one day when I came home from work. She had spent a large fraction of her salary on this gift, and haggled desperately with the store owner to be able to afford it, so it assumed an O Henry Gift of the Magi mystique. It was a versatile timepiece, with a splendid array of functions that I have never seen in any other watch: analog and digital, it told regular and military time, provided the day and date, and had alarm clock and stopwatch functions, too. Everything about it from its wafer thin case to the intricate links of its band was sleek and silver, and it had such catlike reflexes that when it fell off a surface or slipped from my wrist, it always nimbly landed face up. Yet, because this wunderkind of watches had no numbers, and proved too elegant and sophisticated for my mood, and I took it for granted.
For a month, I suppressed my desire for a new watch with numbers by taking long drives. Then circumstances intervened. My wife’s versatile gift watch steamed under the crystal while I was playing basketball. Its hands, if not time, stood still.
My wife supported my desire for a new sports watch, but her view was that if I was going to be frivolous, I should be practical. She reasoned that I needed a watch that would be supremely resistant to water. She convinced me to forego the more expensive and, to her mind, juvenile number watch and purchase instead a diver’s watch with bright green circles in place of numbers. She persuaded me that this was what I had wanted all along, although I had never seen it before. I soaked in her excitement by osmosis and enjoyed the diving watch but could never shake the feeling that it was a compromise.
My yearning for a watch with numbers went into temporary remission, but four years later, I found one on sale for $20. It came in a green, fake alligator case that snapped closed. I bought it on the spot. For the first month I had it, I took off my numbered watch at night, buckled it in a circle, and replaced it in its box so that each morning I could relive the thrill of wearing it for the first time. Gradually the fake alligator strap was bitten at the notch where I fastened it and I stopped the ritual of newness. Now, five years later, my numbered watch sits in its box, an unworn relic of a childish fetish.
Since then I have bought five more watches. Now I have more timepieces than days of the week, at least one to match any color and style of clothing. I try to be fair to all of my watches, and give each of them a turn on my wrist. Sometimes, I change watches when I come home so I can give each one a chance.
My only excuse for this conspicuous consumption is that others are apparently as addicted to watches as I am, if the floor space in department stores and catalog pages devoted to watches are any indication. Since, timepiece technology is commonplace and most watches durable and reliable, people must buy watches for other reasons than telling better time. Watches are more about fashion than function. They are accessories that give glitter to the drab conformity of our dress, and say something about the taste, economic status, and aspirations of the people who wear them.
My craving for new watches merits no distinction from other shopping addictions. However, I cling to the redemptive idea that a watch does not measure time so much as console for time lost. When I am stuck in line or waiting for my number to be called, I anxiously consult my watch to confirm my distress. There, with static grace, a beautifully designed face stares back at me with elegant hands and splendid colors. At that moment, the theft of my time and the truth about how little I have are forgotten and I am rewarded by the model of efficiency and art adorning my wrist.
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