On time

I have always had a fascination with watches, especially mechanical ones. When I was a child and still knew him, my father had a beautiful Rolex that I was not allowed to hold, and thus stared at endlessly. Summarily, I caught the bug. I’ve worn a watch all of my adult life. I went through a collecting phase, frequently buying and selling them, but across the past several years, I’ve pared it down to two not including an Apple watch. Both are relatively expensive. One was a gift from my in-laws upon graduating college. The other I bought in order to give to my son when he turns 18. My increasing age has been paired with increasing sentimentality.

I wear the one intended for my son the most. It’s a mechanical chronograph. No battery to be found, it’s powered entirely by what’s called a mainspring that’s wound by the wearer’s movement. The back of it is open, meaning that, rather than metal, it’s sapphire, so you can see the watch work. It’s a marvel of a thing. Naturally, my wife does not understand this, but leaves me to it.

The danger, though, of wearing a watch, is the increased desire to use it. My phone’s watch is connected to the atomic one buried somewhere in the mountains of the Midwest, and is ten times more accurate than anything one could ever possibly need. But I check it, anyhow. And again, ten minutes later. Why? It’s less about an obsession with knowing the exact current time, and more of an obsession with its usage, its passing.

Until I became a parent, I largely defined my life by the things I have, or have wanted to, accomplish. Some are impressive to bring up at cocktail parties. Others get blank stares. To be clear, it’s not about having a death resume with as many bullet points as possible. I’ve no need for a Wikipedia page, or to have its highlights engraved on my headstone. Nor is it about fame or notoriety. It’s about a fixation with my demise. I think about it constantly. Independent of my soul’s eventual destination, will the short time given to me have been well used?

A spare moment found between work and home obligations brings with it a pernicious, neurotic cascade. Am I doing what I ought to? Why ought I do it? Does it really matter if I write this book, or return to my dusty piano, or learn to paint with watercolors? Is the equation changed at all by just watching Netflix for the next six hours? On my deathbed, will I consider any of these things, or will they mark the difference between a happy surrendering and a frowned departure? A desire to avoid complacency somewhat implies a goal, or at least a desired state to maintain. That misses the mark. And geez, look at the time I’ve wasted asking the questions.

At some point, someone convinced me that doing challenging things was meaningful and important, even if only because they were challenging. This shook hands with the memory of watching my grandfather die when I was very young, and now I have to rebuild and convince myself of an entire metaphysics every time I find myself even slightly bored and desirous of the couch.

The successful raising of my child (hopefully, God willing, children) is a perfectly acceptable laurel to rest on. Great men make great families, and a great family ought to be reward enough for this life. And yet I can’t rest. Guilt waterboards me at seven am the next day if I spent the previous night watching my favorite movies instead of writing or doing something meaningful. Whatever that means, outside of the religious.

This isn’t even paired with a feeling of superiority over people who spend most of their spare time watching or thinking about movies, shows, politics, pop culture, or the latest Yeezy merchandise. Sometimes I envy the simplicity. Seems like it could be serene, straightforward. I don’t claim to know why some are or are not imbued with this pang. Maybe Jesus or some saint talked about this. I wouldn’t know (more books I should have read already, but haven’t.)

At the end of the day, I take the watch off and put it on my nightstand next to the baby monitor. The mainspring will keep it running all night, quietly ticking, marking the hours that pass.