My first wristwatch was a Timex with a black wristband, an exciting acquisition that at the time made my young self feel very grown up.
Adults wore watches—who knew why?—and now I had one too!
My thinking did not extend to the idea that maybe those same adults would now expect me to “be on time,” or come home from playing at a certain hour, or any number of other real-world asks that depended on quantifying the ticking clock that was now attached to me, and would always be so.
I am no horologist, but I have enjoyed the parade of watches that have lived on my wrist. They have been decorative, useful, and in some cases, could be interpreted as social signaling. But never would I have guessed that my watch would become an addiction, or maybe a body part.
Sometimes you don’t realize things like this until they’re gone.
I had to part with my Apple Smartwatch last week.
And it was difficult.
It had been losing power at what seemed to be a precipitous rate, and I was loath to discover it dead on my wrist one day. The watch, after all, helped me find my phone, counted my steps and kept track of my Rings; it freed me from carrying my phone around the house all day, and it woke me up from occasional stealth naps, taken when my own internal battery was running a bit low. My watch also makes me endlessly accessible to my family, and all who depend upon my reliability.
I found myself slapping my wrist at first, aware of what was not there. But when I adjusted, and let go of the missive that one must know every little thing at the moment it is unfolding, I felt free.
Like a vacation, this brand of freedom will be fleeting, but restorative.
The world keeps spinning, whether we are acutely aware of it or not. ©
