A Matter of Time

My birthday was celebrated with my best friends on Saturday, when we saw Iron Man at the Davis (and enjoyed it very much), ate dinner and drank Bloody Marys and the Daily Bar & Grill (and enjoyed it/them very much) and had dessert at Taste of Heaven (and enjoyed it very much), with many lovely and appropriate presents given (books about classic theaters and silent films, a DVD boxed set, an angel to watch over me). A lovely time was had by all.

Sunday, though, was my actual birthday. The evening was spent at Mom's house, where she made me dinner and gave me leftovers to take home. The only thing differentiating the evening from any other spent at her house was the chocolate cake and ice cream. Mom is allergic to chocolate--gives her migraines--so she sent the remainder of the cake home with me, along with nine boxes of various teas. (I'd told her I didn't need anything for my birthday, but she decided that I needed tea. Who am I to argue with Mom?)

Sunday morning and afternoon, however, were mine.

Even with the festivities on Saturday, I wasn't in the best of moods. No surprise there. Birthdays often make me moody and introspective--perhaps overly so. I look forward with apprehension. I look back with regret. I look at now like I'd look at vanilla pudding: Not bad, but not exciting, either. Is the glass half-full or half-empty? Answer: If there's anything left in the glass at all, you're not drinking hard enough.

When I'm in a mood like that, there are several ways I can shake myself from it. Watch some movies. Listen to music. Take a long walk. Shop.

I decided to combine the latter two: Take a long walk and do a bit of shopping. It would be just over two miles' worth of walking, and I'd take care of some needs and, maybe, some wants. Just the thing to vacuum out the cobwebs.

Because of our long, more-harsh-than-usual winter, I hadn't gotten out to take a long walk for a while--and my body had no problem letting me know that it didn't appreciate it now. My legs were leaden. My back ached. My arms didn't like the heavy, bulky shopping bags they supported.

But that all happened after I got back to La Casa del Terror. While I was walking, though, I felt little discomfort of either body or mind. I picked up many cans of Friskies for the Girlish Girls (who beg for a tin to be popped open first think in the morning, whether they've finished last night's kibble or not), then headed toward Target.

Target and I are great friends, especially with one within walking distance of home. Sometimes, our friendship is too great, as the size of my Target Visa bill will often attest. Still, there are things I need there--laundry detergent, mouthwash, boxer briefs and loaves of bread. There are also lots of things there that I want--action figures, scented candles, tasty foods that aren't remotely good for me and DVDs. (That last item is off limits for the moment, though, considering that I've bought a few lately and the ones I haven't bought are on my Amazon wishlist through the end of this month; after then, everything's fair game.)

But I had something nibbling at the back of my brain for a while--not a need, necessarily, but not really a want, either. More of a "Well, I've never bought one of those before, now have?" And while I was in Target, winding my way through the shoe department and back around to bed and bath, the nibble became a bite when I reached the jewelry counter--I wanted to buy a watch.

This may not sound like anything extraordinary, nor should it. People buy watches every day. Except...as far as I could remember, I never had. My family had bought me plenty of watches over the years--reliable, affordable Timex; stylish, sophisticated Perry Ellis; old-fashioned, impractical-yet-cool pocket watches. And this didn't even account for the watches inherited from family members who had passed on, like the half dozen or so pocket watches we found when Grandma died, or the railroad watch Dad left me. So there was never a need to buy a watch.

However, of all of the watches given to me in my life, only one is in more-or-less working order--the Timex Indiglo, given to Dad the same Christmas Mom gave me and my brother the exact same watch. Mine stopped working ages ago; my brother's may or may not be. But Dad's? Took the licking, kept on ticking. And it looks it--battered, scratched, Indiglo feature (that lights the face up in the dark) functioning only occasionally, crystal cracked and splintered. Keeps time pretty damn well, though.

Even so, it's not exactly an everyday watch. I needed something that that didn't look like it had been run over by a rush hour's worth of cars. I needed to buy my own damn watch for once.

I looked over the surprisingly large selection of watches at Target--mostly Timexes, most with the Indiglo feature (is it standard now?), all affordable. I quickly narrowed it down to two--one with a stainless-steel face and matching band, and one with an old-fashioned, off-white face with Roman numerals and a brown leather band. I could have chosen either one and not chosen poorly, but I came away with the old-fashioned face. Guess I'm just an old-fashioned kind of guy.

This doesn't mean that I won't wear the old Indiglo anymore. Given its relative functionality, it'll do just fine for weekend wear--kind of like that ratty old sweater that you've had forever and just don't want to throw away quite yet. But the new Indiglo? It's on my wrist right now. And it looks good.