If the Watch Fits

My purple and lime-green Baby G watch broke over the weekend. The plastic strap ripped where it attached to the watch itself, and I had to wait two days to get into my watch repair and sales place, Real Time. It was a long forty-eight hours, as I constantly glanced at the pasty-white strip on my wrist where a watch usually lives 24x7. Today I gleefully walked into the store to get my watched fixed, only to be told by the charming owner, Felix Zaitsberg, that I would have to deal with Casio directly through their website.

I paused in dismay,  contemplating many more days without my constant companion. When I pressed Mr. Zaitsberg for details, he shrugged and said that the companies make it difficult to do repairs because they want me to buy a new watch. We collectively bemoaned the corporate strategy of planned obsolescence, and when I realized it would be around $40 to obtain and put on the new watch strap, I caved and bought a new Baby G - white band and hot pink face - for $80. After all, the last watch did 'last' for three years.

The new watch happily strapped on my wrist, I prepared to pay, when the watchmaker came up to the counter with an Russian-accented offer. "I can put a cheap band on your old watch, which won't match, or I can give the watch a proper burial."  I was intrigued by the idea of a proper burial for my watch, but knowing that the watch itself would keep going for years, I purchased a cheap black band and had it put on the purple and lime-green face. Not pretty, but practical as a second watch.

Now I have two functioning sports watches, and I am left to ponder which things in my life can be 'repaired' and used indefinitely (even if they fail the pretty test), and which things could use a 'proper burial.' I love to hold on to things that brought me joy in the past, but don't want to be closed off to new opportunities (like white watches with a hot pink face). Perhaps some ideas, habits, beliefs and relationships could use a proper burial.