Flexing My Wrist Presence Against the Dying of the Light

In my early forties, I was drunk on “wrist presence.” I wanted watches so large they could double as signal mirrors for rescue helicopters. The bigger the case, the smaller my self-esteem. These oversized monstrosities weren’t badges of taste; they were distress flares of insecurity and a middle-aged identity crisis. Even as my horological palate matured, the vanity remained. I wasn’t trying to tell time—I was trying to tell the world I mattered.

Yet my vanity was oddly selective. I didn’t care if my car was plain as Melba toast or if my wardrobe screamed “laundry day.” All I wanted was a clean Honda Accord, a passable body, a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a watch that did the heavy lifting of my entire identity. For two decades, that formula felt like equilibrium—a minimalist shell hiding a maximalist ego.

Then, late in my sixty-third year, the vibe shifted. The thrill curdled. My so-called “signature watch” no longer filled me with adrenaline and dopamine. 

I still love my divers, but wearing them now feels less like conquest and more like quiet companionship. The fire has cooled. No amount of flexing on Instagram or brooding on YouTube can resurrect that manic gleam. The truth is brutally simple: every tick of the watch is a memento mori. I’ve aged out of the performance. Time, the final minimalist, has stripped me down and humbled me in the face of my mortality.