I put on a favorite Seiko this morning but my wrist woke up skinny and the bracelet’s too loose, so I chose another watch instead, one with a strap that’s easier to adjust. Don’t know how common this is, but my wrist size varies from week to week. It’s one reason I prefer straps to bracelets, which are a pain to re-size.
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Why do I love wristwatches? All the regular reasons, of course, but also because these little mechanical marvels say something about me. They’re an expression of my personality and my mood. They reflect my taste. And I don’t discount the adornment factor — watches are a form of jewelry, the kind men can wear every day, in any situation.
In the early 1980s, I wore a gold chain around my neck. The older pilots in my fighter squadron had flown in Vietnam and wore Thai baht chains; we younger jocks copied them. When those guys aged out of the business, we quit wearing our gold chains. I never had the balls to wear an earring, or even a tattoo. The only adornments I wear these days are my wedding ring, sometimes my class ring, and an F-15 lapel pin on the rare occasions I don a sport jacket (neckties are another form of male adornment, but I think I’ve reached the point in life where I never have to wear another one) — and a wristwatch, preferably a mechanical one, picking whichever one from my collection feels right on any particular day.
Our 50-year-old live-in daughter Polly is working again, this time for a home health care service. She has EMT certifications, thanks to past college courses, along with more recent first aid and CPR training (the county had hired and trained her as a summer lifeguard, but she was a backup and never got any shifts).
She’s had a hell of a time finding work. After the lifeguarding job failed to materialize she got hired at a local Fry’s supermarket, but a past DUI that was supposed to be off her record popped up on a background check and that job vanished as well. Drama at home? Yes, and plenty of it. It’s been hard on all of us.
Polly battles depression and alcoholism and had a crisis shortly after the Fry’s debacle, leading to her second stay in a county mental health facility, this time for five days. When you’re middle-aged and unemployed, forced to depend on aging parents for room and board, with no job prospects and seemingly no hope, you lose any sense of self-worth. After the county released her, Donna and I thought a possible last resort would be for her to hire on with a house-cleaning crew, the kind of job where they always need people and where background checks aren’t always a priority. Looks like home health care is another, an industry on the medical fringes, but a booming one. We’re only one day in, but so far so good. She’s excited, feeling much better about herself, and making a little money to boot. Please keep your fingers crossed for her — she might find her way out of the woods yet.
We’re off to Costco soon. Donna bought new tires for her car and now it’s time to have them mounted. I’m going along with my eyeglass prescription in hand so I can get a new pair of driving sunglasses (yet another form of man jewelry) — by the time they call my number at the vision counter, Donna’s car should be about ready.
Stay fresh, cheese bags!