The Ironman

Whenever I go visit my parents or my mother-in-law, I always end up with new socks, shirts, hats, jackets, wallets – really just new stuff. This is one of the reasons why I never go shopping. I don’t feel like I need anything. Though I am sure they give me these things because they love me, I think I can explain the main reason for their desire to replenish my wardrobe.

1. They help with the laundry
2. They notice holes in the socks
3. They notice the yellow arm-pitted old undershirts
4. They handle the T-Shirts that are worn thinner than a Kleenex tissue
5. They see the pants that are frayed on the bottom from dragging the ground
6. They watch me use a wallet that is falling apart
7. They feel pity/embarrassment

I could write about the hat that I have had for 15 years, “Old Hat”, that has a cracked bill and a nasty black ring around the top from years of sweat. I could tell you the story about my loving wife, Jill, contacting the baseball coach from San Jacinto Junior College to acquire two more hats just like this old hat – and how I have had no interest in wearing them.

I could write about the wallet that I have used since the 4th grade – at least that is when I put the Early Times hot air balloon sticker on it. I could tell you about how the Christian Dior logo has almost completely worn off of the leather that is decorated by old Michael Jordan Stickers I put on in the 80’s. I could tell you about the drawer in my desk that has various new wallets and money clips I have collected over the years as Christmas and Father’s Day presents – and how I have transferred the contents from the old to the new a number of times only to realize that I love the old one best.

I could talk about my jeans and pants theory – how the food and dirt will eventually fall off if you wear them long enough – eliminating the need to wash them more than once every couple of weeks. I could tell you about the time I emptied the pockets of my favorite jeans before throwing them in the washing machine and found receipts from 27 days earlier and 6 different hotel keys in the back left pocket (where I always put my hotel keys). I had been wearing those jeans every day for a month.

Today, however, I am writing about my watch. It is, or was, a Timex Ironman digital watch with Indiglo. It came with one of those standard black plastic/rubber watch bands back when I bought it about ten years ago from Walmart. The band was quickly replaced with one of those Velcro bands with the patterns on them. Over time, the Velcro wore off and I had to get another band, and another one, etc. The band it is attached to now is just plain black Velcro. I think it used to have some green fabric on top of the Velcro, but it wore off long ago. I also had to cut the end of the strap because it wasn’t sticking anymore. I have replaced the battery probably as much as I have the strap.

Last year Jill heard me complain about how hard it was to push the buttons on my watch one night when I was trying to set the alarm. She, like most normal human beings, took that as a clue that it might be time for a new one instead of taking it the way it was intended – a shameless plea for pity. On Christmas morning I unwrapped an Arnette watch from the Sunglass Hut. That is not a real fancy brand, I guess, but it was more sophisticated (and expensive) than the watch that traditionally takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’. Jill knew I wouldn’t go for something really trendy or dressy, so she thought this digital watch with a big face and a big leather band with silver stuff on it might be somewhere in the middle. I honestly tried to make it work – but everytime I put it on I felt like Mark McGrath for some reason. Don’t ask me why. It just wasn’t me. Jill told me to exchange it for something else – so I took it back and had them refund the credit card because I couldn’t find anything that would suit my needs as well as my old Ironman could – difficult buttons included.

Six months later I made the mistake of wearing this old watch in the Atlantic Ocean. Later that day you could see some condensation inside the face of the watch and in a matter of hours the numbers disappeared. By the next morning, the indiglo stopped working and it looked like ink had been poured inside. I left it outside in the sun with the hope that it would magically dry out and start working again. It didn’t.

So I was faced with this question … What do I do with this broken watch? For some people, there isn’t a question at all. Just throw it away. It doesn’t work. It isn’t valuable. It has no use whatsoever. For me, however, it was a difficult question. Of course, this is coming from a self-proclaimed pack rat who once considered saving the little hair particles that he cleaned out from his first electric razor. I mean - it was a part of me. I couldn’t just throw it away. (Well, actually I could – and I did. Kind of creepy.)

Anyways, as I was looking at the sad blank watch and thought of just throwing it away, I was reminded of something. I was wearing that watch with my college graduation robe. I was wearing it when I proposed to Jill on a rectangular concrete slab that used to be home to a bench swing. It has been with me during every live show and studio session in my career as a “professional” musician. That watch was strapped on my left wrist when I was holding my wife’s hand telling her to breathe … and push … and breathe while delivering our first son. I wore it when I visited my father-in-law in the hospital a few hours before he passed away. I wore it about a year later when our daughter was born. I used the Indiglo on countless nights as a not so bright flashlight to find a pacifier that fell out of the crib. I wore it as I signed the contract to buy our first home – and as I signed the contract to sell it six years later. I wore it through the worst days of my relatively young life – looking at it every couple of minutes wishing that time would go much faster. I also wore it on my best days when I wish time could stand still.

As the life of this watch flashed before my eyes, I realized something about myself. I like history. No – not the study of the different ages and wars and stuff. I am talking about shared experiences and memories. To me, that kind of history is a priceless commodity. Why? Because I have been that watch before. There were times when I really felt I had nothing to offer the people around me. To keep me around would just be a burden. I didn’t “work” like I used to. I was broken. I honestly expected my friends and family to toss me aside – and I would have understood. But they didn’t.

Luckily the history I shared with my family and friends formed a foundation that was something like a trampoline – it not only broke my fall but helped me to bounce back. They didn’t treat me like a Rolex that stopped working two days after buying it – returning it to get their investment back. Actually, the fact I was broken had little bearing on the way they felt about me. That time was just a drop in the ocean of the time that we had already shared and the times we would share in the future. They knew that my failures didn’t paint a complete picture of who I really was any more than my one and only dunk in a college intramural game painted a complete picture of my basketball career. They saw the big picture. The more history – the bigger the picture.

So I guess that is what I see when I look at this broken down timekeeper – the big picture. Now, unfortunately, I don’t think this guy is ever going to bounce back. But the least I can do for my old friend is give him a spot in the drawer by my bed with that candle my little sister made for me, the box Jill’s wedding ring came in, the note my little brother wrote me the night before I got married, my father-in-law’s handkerchief, my first homemade Father’s day card and all of the other things I don’t have a practical use for – but keep for sentimental reasons.

You can’t see the digital numbers anymore. The Indiglo doesn’t work. But I decided to keep him anyways. Yesterday I put him in my backpack to fly back home with me from the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Maybe, just maybe, around 8:15 tomorrow morning I will hear an alarm beeping from inside my bedside drawer – the same one I heard coming from my backpack this morning – letting me know he’s not quite through yet and reminding me of our great history together.