1.22.2006

Ode to my five-year-old Timex

Oh, Timex, I thought this afternoon it was over.

When I turned that corner too tight and knocked my wrist (and you) against the doorframe, and noticed an hour later that you were covered in streaks of white paint, I thought, this is it — I am going to have to put poor old Timex in a forgotten drawer of my jewelry box and go to Target to plunk down $24.99 for a replacement. I think this is how much a replacement you costs at Target. Obviously it has been awhile since I bought a new watch.

I tried to wipe off the streaks with my shirt and then a tissue, but they wouldn't budge. Poor little Timex, I thought you'd be felled in your prime. You're only five (or maybe six, or seven) years old, and only on your third battery!

I've had you so long I can't remember when I got you. I know there was another watch sometime around my freshman or sophomore year of college — I can remember the strap breaking and a futile search in the steps and lawn of Harbourt Hall. Clearly, that watch was not as durable as you.

Because when I tried eyeglass cleaner spray, the streaks came off, and your face was as good as new. How resilient you are!

I have to admit I was relieved. Sure, you're, like, the greatest watch of all time, so Target still carries your model. But it wouldn't be the same. We've got a lot of history, Timex. You let me know when I was strolling into my undergrad classes 15 minutes late. You lit up your little Indiglo face in countless dark clubs and movie theaters. You got me to job interviews on time. We've been swimming in my grungy apartment pool and the beautiful blue Caribbean together (because you're waterproof, not water resistant!).

I know you've seen the new watch I got for Christmas, the pretty beaded one. I know you might be jealous, but you don't need to worry. Sure, it's pretty, and I'll wear it sometimes when I want to dress up, but, really, you need a break occasionally. You don't need to worry about your place in the watch hierarchy — you're still the functional little master of time around this apartment.

About that ramming you into doorframes every once and awhile...you know I don't mean to do it, right? You know I'm just not very careful with my appendages when I turn corners sometimes. After all, it's not always you getting hit. Sometimes it's my elbow, or my thumb, or my knee, or my toe. I'll try to be more careful in the future, though.

Here's to five (or maybe six, or seven) more years together.

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