Foreword: It’s been absolute ages since I’ve wrote anything. Between job commitments, getting sucked into the world of Mad Men – Coming to you in 3840 x 2160 pixels – and starting school (my sentiments which will come in a later post), there’s simply no time anymore. Multi-tasking used to be fun – heck, I even thought me good at it – but that is a thing of the past. Being a part-time student seriously takes multi-tasking to a whole new level. But as I’ve mentioned; in another post.
Recently, I hit the mall for a little solo shopping time, only to pop into a store I’ve always avoided due to its steely exterior and more than seedy-looking shop assistants. A watch shop. But not one which sold your sleek Daniel Wellingtons or crystal-accented Guess automatics. It was a Casio, the store chock full of burly G-Shock classics and garish limited editions, tailored for the manliest of men who toughed it out in dizzying altitudes or dove in the deepest caves with scary looking fish like the one in Finding Nemo.
Still, a glossy panel of candy-coloured watches at the back caught my eye – you could only see it when standing at a certain angle perpendicular to the rubbish bin outside the mall – a stupid marketing mistake, no doubt. Shiny Baby-Gs lined the case, and they were not at all like the clunky rubber things that I used to wear in Primary school. They no longer came in dull pinks, blues and yellows; their blocky chunks of digital text seemingly extinguished with the god awful colours of yesteryear. Two decades sure did a whole lot of good to Casio. These metal-rimmed watches were delicate and ethereal, their faces modern, both bezel and lug dipped in a delicious pink-gold – a shade or two lighter than the outmoded rose-gold. I cannot exaggerate how loud the internalised squealing was.
I’ve never been a watch person. With the rise of smartphones, who needed another useless accessory to tell the time when I had a smart metal block to do the deed in 24 timezones across 195 different countries – including Kyrgyzstan. Still, that didn’t sway my disposition in making one of the fastest purchases ever (with the record winner still being my pair of Nike Airs, which made it out of the shop faster than Aaron could furrow his brow).
Having a Baby-G brings me back to examination halls, where I’d peel off my old faded Baby-G from my sweaty wrist and place it in front of me, timer at the ready for some major hand cramps. Or when I’d wear my watch everywhere I went, from the moment I woke up, only taking it off for baths and bedtime. It was my favourite piece of everything for a child who had nothing. It wasn’t about having a new pretty shiny thing to help get me over the Monday blues. When I look at the watch, it’s an emotional cocktail of sentiment, pride, and gratitude. Sentiment over my childish reverence of how a single watch could’ve made a 7-year old so happy, pride at how far that baby girl’s come in achieving so much (I buy my own watches now, ma!), and most importantly grateful to my parents for shelling out major dough for my education and investing in more than money into the resolution of my future.
Yeah, I got all that from a candy-pink Baby-G. #notanad.