I do not own a wristwatch. I can’t recall ever wanting to own a wristwatch. I see coworkers wearing their timepieces proudly, perhaps a different one every day, but this has never interested me. I don’t know if this lack of desire is a residual of a Peter Pan complex that subjects me to drinking my weight in chocolate milk every month, but I can only assume it’s that I subconsciously associate the act of wearing a legitimate watch, not one with a cloth or velcro strap, equates to being a full-fledged adult. 

Until now. Lately, I feel as though I want one. No, I don’t care what time it is; I have nothing planned anyway. Ever. I just hate that when I’m stuck in the middle of an inane conversation, or when I sense one approaching, I don’t have the luxury of looking down at my wrist and declaring, “Oh, look at the time! I have to run,” before escaping the situation. Okay, I’ll be honest, I do that now, but with a bare wrist, people just know immediately that I’m some kind of ignorant jerk with no social skills. And they’re right. I’m just tired of making it so obvious, I guess.